Xanadu
by Alara
Summary: ROMY. Rogue is captured by Trask & is experimented on extensively. Remy's a prisoner too; they escape. Xmen think she's dead, she thinks they abandoned her. Craziness ensues. Not HC, it really has a plot! Not as angsty as Ch 1 might lead you to believe.
1. “And close your eyes with holy dread

I'm back! …After a several-year hiatus of posting. I KNOW, I'm horrible. I have been writing, but since some was actually published locally, I cannot put it online. And look at it this way—this way you (hopefully) won't have to wait months in between updates. :)

Anyway, this is a ROMY, hopefully an interesting, new take on the pairing. Some angst, some humour, action-adventure, lots of romance.

Info You Need To Know:  
Rogue and Remy have _not_ met before; but this IS after Self-Posessed (where Rogue's absorbed powers go… well, rogue…), Rogue's only been back "in the field" for a short while at the beginning of the story. Also, in this A/U story, Rogue deals with the first use of her powers alone; when she is chased by Mystique, picked up by the X-men in the graveyard, and convinced to come to Xaviers', it is the SECOND time she has used her powers.

Rogue is 18 when the story begins, Remy is 21.

Thoughts are in italics, and while I will put in some of Rogue and Remy's accents, I am not going through the headache of writing, for instance, all of Rogue's "I"s as "Ah"s. You all know she speaks with a Southern accent, and spellcheck goes nuts trying to deal with that sort of thing.

Hopefully that gives you some frame of reference to set this in. I'll take suggestions for titles; "Xanadu" is a place-holder I'm not sure I entirely like. Here we go--!

6 April 2005—Added Prologue—so do read!

.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu  
by Alara

Prologue:

Rogue shuffled into the kitchen, yawning at the early morning hour. _Damn Logan and his dawn Danger Room sessions, anyway,_ she thought, blearily reaching for the burbling coffeepot. A large mug and some sugar, and she was ready to be caffeinated. As she sipped the steaming liquid, she leaned against the doorframe, looking out across the fog-laden grounds. _It looks so peaceful out there,_ she mused to herself. _I could just go out and disappear, be swallowed up and left alone._ She sighed to herself. _That'd be nice…_

Rogue was getting awfully sick of the people around here. Well, maybe not Ororo or Logan, but most of the students were getting on her nerves. It had been a little over a month since she had lost control over the psyches in her head—a month when, it seemed, no-one trusted her anymore, despite Professor Xavier's assurances that she was unlikely to lose control like that again. It was aggravating. Bobby and Evan avoided her when they saw her coming. Scott and Jean didn't avoid her exactly, but whenever they were around, she could tell they were watching her warily, like she was a bomb that might go off at any moment. They always stayed long enough to say hello, pretend nothing was wrong, but they always were quick to get themselves out of whatever room Rogue was in at the time.

Even Kitty and Kurt, her best friends here, didn't trust her. Rogue knew that was true; she'd accidentally overheard part of a conversation they'd had about her.

"_But what if, like, it happens again, Kurt?" Kitty had asked. "It took the entire team to take her down the last time!"_

_Kurt had sounded tired when he replied. "I know—it's dangerous. She almost killed all of us when her powers went wild, but we almost had to kill her to get her to stop! I don't know what the Professor is doing about it, but I'm sure they're working on her control more than ever now."_

A bitter look crossed Rogue's face as she stared into the fog, remembering the conversation. Poor Kurt. He apparently hadn't noticed that the sessions with the Professor became shorter after her loss of control—not longer. _I've got the world's most powerful telepath afraid I'm going to accidentally kill him,_ she thought, and the thought was not a happy one. It only increased the distance she felt was between herself and the rest of the team.

Part of that distance was her own fault, she knew—since her powers first manifested, she had cultivated a prickly Goth personality to keep others at arms' length, the better to avoid accidentally absorbing them. And the better to avoid getting hurt. Her few friends in Caldecott had _said_ they were okay with her being a mutant—after all, it wasn't exactly something she had _decided_—but after she absorbed Cody, the darling of the school, at that party, her friends had kept their distance. Oh, sure, they'd call to talk once in a while, but they never really 'hung out' anymore after Cody had recovered from his Rogue-induced coma.

Then she had run into Jenny—literally run into her one evening—and was suddenly thinking, 'Oh. My. God! I don't know what cheerleading routine we should use for the state competition! And it's only two months away!' That thought was so foreign to Rogue that she realized what she'd done. Fortunately, she hadn't absorbed Jenny much, just knocked her out for a moment, but as soon as she began to move on her own, Rogue ran. She had ended up in the graveyard with Mystique and the X-men trying to find her. At first she was with Mystique's Brotherhood for about a month, but her powers didn't get any better. Confused and scared, she'd decided to go with the X-men, figuring that they as mutants wouldn't shun her.

_Well, look at them now. _A burning tear slipped down her cheek; she started and quickly wiped it away. _Now, quit it, girl! You're the Rogue, you don't _feel_ lonely!_ Funny how telling herself that never seemed to work. For all of her rough attitude and her touch-me-not demeanor, she had to admit that her teammates' avoidance, well, it _hurt._ A lot. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat at that thought. She needed their support more than she'd ever admit. Now, with that support gone, she was left adrift and feeling like she'd been kicked out of a club that she'd been a member of—until now.

An ugly, upset look crossed her face as she glared into the swirling fog. _Yeah. Nice friends in Caldecott, nice friends in New York. Lose control once or twice and you're OUT._

She tossed back the last of her coffee and turned to go get ready for Logan's Danger Room session. Why he was making _her_ get up at dawn, she didn't know. She was not really a morning person, and getting up this early only made her more sour-tempered than usual.

She arrived at the Danger Room, where Logan was waiting for her. He muttered a "morning" at her, then turned to go into the control room. She stopped him.

"Logan."

"Yeah, Stripes?"  
"Why… How come I have extra DR sessions? Am I in trouble for something?" She tried not to whine.

"I told you before, Stripes, you need extra time in the Danger Room to get back into field-ready condition after…uh…"

"After I lost control." Rogue finished bitterly for him. "Well, how close am I to being ready? I'm getting sick of being left here when there's a mission to go on, and it's been a month since I got out of the infirmary!"

"You're close," he admitted. "But let's see how today goes. Get in there; I'll start the program."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

An hour later, Rogue gratefully fell into a hot shower. Damn, but that had hurt. She'd been walloped by a couple of robot-like 'enemies,' after which Logan had stepped up the level and had her dodge laser blasts. Unlike the rest of her teammates, when Rogue was in a solo session in the Danger Room, her powers did her no good. It was all skill and training that kept her in one piece. _Though it would be nice to use Kurt's teleporting or something on my own will sometime._ She sighed quietly as she got herself ready to go to school. Somehow, a version of what she had done was circulating the school. Considering how much damage she'd done to Bayville, it wasn't surprising that the kids at school avoided her more than before. Oh well. At least she didn't have to wait in line for lunch anymore.

That afternoon, a call came in for the X-men. Rogue was permitted to go on the mission. She didn't have to do much, and the mutant—a crazy fire-wielding minion of Magneto's—was subdued without her help. She had had the opportunity to take him out early in the fight, and had offered to do so. Scott, however, had refused to let her get close to the mutant. He said it was for her safety—"We want to keep you in one piece, now"—but for the rest of the fight, Rogue could have sworn that Jean was keeping an eye on her, apparently suspicious that she'd disobey Scott's order.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A few weeks later, Rogue was walking home from school. Kurt and Kitty had gotten a ride with Scott and Jean, but Rogue really couldn't stand being around the redhead; she opted to walk. All Jean seemed to feel for her anymore was distrust and contempt. Not that they'd had a great friendship _before_ her loss of control, but at least Jean hadn't watched her like a hawk all the time.

As she walked along Bayville's streets, Rogue decided to go to the bookstore. _That's a good way to avoid going home for at least an hour, and besides, I need something new to read._ She perused the shelves, but didn't find anything that caught her interest. She glanced at her watch—whoops! She'd spent more time than she thought she had. If she didn't get home _now_, she'd miss dinner.

Quickly, she exited the store, and didn't notice the man following her at first. But when she took a shortcut through a little-known alleyway, and he followed too, she figured it out. _Oh my God._ The anti-mutant fervor had been rising nationwide for some time now; Rogue had been wondering when one of the Institute kids would be harassed. _Just my luck it's me._ The crackle of a walkie-talkie from behind startled her. She heard the man say, "—auburn, with white—" The response came back, "It's a go, then. Move in!"

The footsteps behind her quickened, and Rogue dropped her schoolbag and began running toward the mansion. Briefly, she thanked God that Logan had made her run as part of her DR sessions. She hated running, but was it ever coming in useful now! She kept pelting toward the familiar wall, now rising in the distance. She risked a glance behind her: he was gaining. Crap, she'd have to try to lose him. Matching action to thought, she ducked down a short alleyway, dodging the debris that cluttered it. She came out the other side and nearly ran down a businessman talking on a cell phone. Without hesitating, she grabbed it. "Sorry—have to borrow—life or death—" she gasped out, and dialed the mansion's number as she took off running again, ignoring the man's surprised "Hey! That's my phone!"

"Xavier Institu—"

"Kitty—Kitty, it's Rogue. I'm on—" she peered at a street sign "Magnolia, near Oak Street, there's someone after me, you've got to help—"

The phone exploded into shards of plastic in her hand. A wild-eyed look behind her showed that the chaser had found a friend—a friend with some kind of hunting rifle. _Holy shit!_

It seemed like an eternity of running; a cramp started to stitch into her side, but she ignored it, instead scanning the sky and the men behind her. Finally, she saw what she was looking for—Ororo and Jean were dropping in gracefully from above; a sulphurous smell announced the arrival of Kurt, Kitty, and Scott.

Rogue was about to yell at them, let them know exactly where she was, when a sharp pain lanced through her head from her neck. She reached to the source: _A dart? What the hellllll…._ Her vision began to swim. The chaser-man finally caught up with her. She swung at him, but somehow he wasn't where her eyes said he should be. Sound and sight distorted as the world tilted crazily around her. The man slung her over his shoulder and moved toward a van that was just stopping.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Scott couldn't believe his eyes: whoever these guys were, they were talking Rogue! He fired an optic blast at the gunman, who avoided the red beam. More thugs poured out of the van, making room for the kidnapper and Rogue as they advanced on the X-men. A fight ensued, but apparently these guys were ready for their powers, since they seemed practiced at avoiding them. There was a _whoosh_ and Kitty slumped over; Kurt ran to her aid, and pulled a feathered dart out of her shoulder. "Tranquilizers!" he shouted in surprise. "Zey are trying to capture us!"

_Crap_. And they already had Rogue. It began to rain as Ororo called in lightning to try and take out the gunman, who was now drawing a bead on Kurt. Scott leapt for him and knocked him down as the dart passed over their heads. "Thanks, _mein freund_. Vere is Rogue?"

"In the van. "

"I can try to 'port in, try to get her out if I can," Kurt offered instantly, and Scott agreed.

"Fine, but they try to get hold of you, you get out, all right?"

"Right!" Kurt disappeared. Scott blasted another two thugs into unconsciousness, but they seemed endless. Suddenly, the van's engine revved, and Kurt was kicked out of the back door. A hand swung the door shut as the van tore off down the street.

The walkie-talkies on the thugs' belts crackled. _"Abandon mission; chief objective accomplished. We have her. Repeat, if you are mobile, abandon mission—"_

Scott's heel broke the walkie-talkie in two, silencing further comment from Rogue's kidnappers.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Chapter 1: "And close your eyes with holy dread"

"Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching…" —Charles Dickens

Rogue jerked awake, pulse pounding in her throat. A tremor hummed through the floor, impacting her ear. The first few weeks, she hadn't noticed; now she marveled that she ever had missed it—it thrummed through her bones, mimicking her trembling limbs as she desperately pressed herself still, so still, against the linoleum. In her mind she could backtrace the sound: form her ear to the smooth cool floor, under the heavy sealed door to the harshly-lit hallway to the sound's source:

The Cart. It was coming down the hallway, inexorably, that one damned wheel squeaking every third rotation, as always.

She swallowed raspily, her throat suddenly dry, prayed desperately_. O Gawd, please don't let it be for me this time, please, please, take someone else…_

It wasn't that she wished—Them—on someone else; it was that she didn't think she could stand it anymore. She never slept now; it seemed as thought they were coming for her every few hours, day or night.

She choked back a bitter laugh at the thought, swallowed it, lest she attract Their attention to her_. Day and night._ Since she'd been captured, the hours had ground into days into weeks 'til the words "day and night" ceased to have meaning, except as a distant memory of light.

At first, she had been afraid for her teammates, thinking the rest of the X-men had been captured, too. Snatches of stolen conversations of the nursing aides, though, informed her that her friends remained free:

"_Can't believe they only got one of 'em. Those Xavier kids are more trouble, left running around. " _

"_Yeah, but we got the one from that group Trask wanted. The others were just gravy. You know that. And we've got most of the others he wanted, too. Should be a good holiday bonus in that this year." _

The knowledge that the others remained free buoyed her fading hope—for a time. But as time went on, Rogue began to realize she would never be rescued. When they took her from the cold cell, they'd talk casually about the X-men's feeble attempts to rescue her. Each time, it seemed, they were easily rebuffed; in any case, the rescue attempts didn't seem to worry them at all. Rogue noticed that the X-men were being very careful that no-one else was captured—they broke off their attempts at rescue as soon as any X-man was in danger. Finally the rescue attempts stopped altogether.

They had abandoned her. Just like Irene, just like Mystique, once she became more costly than useful, she was kicked aside.

She had been given up for good.

The knowledge was almost enough to break her, but her pride reared its head, lashed her with its sting, and insisted she be independent, as so often before. Her pride demanded that she _live,_ damnit, and screw the X-men if they'd given up on her. _She_ wouldn't give up on herself.

Ironic, to think that They valued her more than her teammates—they were willing to fight to keep her, for whatever reason. She still didn't know why they had captured _her_, though she knew she wasn't the only mutant here. The experiments they did on her seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason: they'd removed squares of slowly-healing skin from her arms, legs, back; another time, they'd recorded her brainwaves as she absorbed someone—street kids, mostly, filled with fear and hunger and loneliness which Rogue now shared. They had injected her with unnamed substances, X-rayed, poked and prodded her, silently recorded the effects on clean white tablets. Pressure points were pierced, to bring intense pleasure, deep pain. They took blood samples, the needles seeming ever larger, more painful, more invasive. In response to all of this, she glared at them silently or spat curses at them while they worked on her.

Some days they seemed only interested in how much pain they could inflict, how much she could take, surgical slices along non-essential lines, just deep enough to watch the red spatter on the shining sterile floor. Those days, cursing wore out quickly, and she could only weep, brokenly.

While her mind flashed across all this information, Rogue remained frozen, breath shallow, heart thundering in her own ears but still not loud enough to drown out the rattle and rumble of The Cart, still moving down the hall, still moving closer. Every second the sound continued was a second it came closer to herself. Her cell, she knew, was at the end of the hall. Six cells, evenly spaced, neatly lined each of the two long walls, pacing their way to that bright window of harshest light in the too-clean chamber where they performed their experiments.

Quickly the sinking realization set in: they were coming for her again. She tried to shake off the dread, choked back a sob. _I can't take this personally. They don't think I'm human, it's like I'm a thinking lab rat. _She took a deep breath. _Still, I won't let them dehumanize me. I'm better than that. _Rogue knew she was being worked on more often than any of the other captives. She knew when anyone was taken out, since the same lightning-bolt of fear pressed her to the floor whether it was her turn or not. When she bothered to keep count, she had been taken about every eight turns or so. Assuming each of the other cells had one prisoner in them, for a total of thirteen, she was being taken about one and a half times as often as anyone else. She wished she knew why they had singled her out. She'd _tell_ them, her mutation wasn't a useful one like Kurt's teleportation or Kitty's phasing or the Professor's telepathy. Her poisoned skin only hurt people, herself most of all.

The Cart rattled to a halt outside her door. She took a breath, braced herself. The door creaked open, and she flung herself at it, shrieking as she always did, clawing, seeking _any_ bare skin, any weapon at all with which to free herself. They knew better, of course, and were well-covered in cleanroom suits. Still, she had to try. Then, a familiar sting in her leg. After a few repetitions of Rogue systematically attacking whoever came to get her, they came prepared with a sedative dart. Otherwise, it took them ten minutes to strap her to The Cart. As her eyes suddenly crossed of their own accord, and her knees gave way beneath her, Rogue smirked inwardly to herself. _Damned if I'm not going to make things as difficult and expensive for you bastards as I can,_ she thought grimly, as her weakly kicking form was lifted by the two dispassionate aides to The Cart and strapped on to it. _If you're going to experiment on me anyhow, you're going to pay as much as I can make you pay._

The light hit her eyes with almost a physical blow as she was wheeled from the dimmer hallway to the antiseptic lights of the experimentation room. With brisk efficiency, she was stripped of clothing, a hospital gown loosely wrapped around her; wires were attached to her skin, to her temples, heart, pulse-points, anywhere they could get information from her. Machines began to beep steadily as her heart tatted out a rhythm, her breathing, her brain waves. Rogue's eyes hazily searched what she could see of the room as they rolled a privacy screen away from the corner, desperate to get some warning of what they would do to her—or make her do—today.  
Her heart sank; there was a pitiful street urchin, not more than 12 years old, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the corner. The kids' psyches had less impact on her than a fully-willed adult; the impressions she received from them faded much more quickly, and thankfully They had not made her absorb someone twice—yet—nor had they made her absorb a mutant's powers. No-one had been absorbed fully, though they did make her absorb them for longer each time. It was still harrowing, though, having the ghost of a child in her head for any time. Most of the impressions she picked up were centered on fear, or loneliness. Occasionally, she'd get a glimpse of the real or imagined horror that had chased the child from its home. And _Jeeesus_, the mouths on some of these kids—!

Rogue had no more time for pity for the kid as he was led toward her, crumbs still hiding in the corners of his cherubic mouth. She steeled her will, readying herself for the onslaught of _image—thought—memory—feeling—being_ that came with absorbing someone. Her teeth ground together as a kind-voiced aide told him that the girl on the bed was very sick, and needed a nice kid like him to hold her hand and cheer her up. The same story they told every other poor kid. Adrenaline started to chase away the tranquilizer lurking in her bloodstream, her heart flushing the poison out. She braced herself as his fingers crept toward her own. She wanted to warn him, "Don't!" but her tongue was thick with the sedative, moved like a glacier. Warmth against her cold, cold skin: his hand touching hers.

For one long instant, _nothing,_ no pull, no eyes suddenly rolling into the head. _No-no-no-no-won't absorb you, I _refuse _to absorb you— _The mantra rolled in Rogue's head, pounding, splitting her head in two. Her mind stretched impossibly thin, rejecting this child, for _once_ not absorbing him—

A sound like a wire breaking, and the familiar flood pushed into her mind, flickered across her eyes for a brief instant before her mind locked around them, sequestered them away, punched them down to bite sized pieces to be spit out later. Reaction set in, and her body shuddered violently against the straps as one of the aides carried the unconscious child away. The chief scientist examined the charts, the sloppy jagged lines of the moniters, tapped a pen against his teeth as he considered the information.

"How'd the mutant do?" asked one of the aides, curious. The chief worker didn't answer him directly, but clicked on an audio recorder.

"Mutant Subject 13 has made progress since her last session, it seems," he said consideringly. "Subject willfully retained control of her mutation for 3.26 seconds during Touch Test Trial 33. Forthcoming will be a complete physical of Mutant Subject 13 and the human control for Trial 33. This information to be forwarded to Sgt. Trask at Priority Classification Level 6. End recording."

_Three and a quarter seconds! That's better time than the Prof and I ever made! _For a brief moment, Rogue exulted in that brief time of touch; how could she not? Then, concern for the child crashed down. _Shit. What am I? I can't stand this; now they're giving me what I always wanted—but not this way! Not this way. But still…Maybe if I do get control over my powers, they won't experiment on me so much anymore…_ Faint hope, but it was all she had at this point—hope that they wouldn't take her as often. It didn't matter what they started with, she always ended up hurting in the end, a seemingly never ending dull ache all over at least. If given a choice, she'd endure that as little as possible.

Sure enough, nearly four hours later, when she was dumped, unresistingly, back into her cell, every bone, every muscle hurt. They had run a complete physical of her, inside and out. She felt like a piece of beef cattle being inspected for market. Besides the inevitable blood tests—were they going to drain her dry? She was sure she was anaemic by now—they had carefully, meticulously scraped every inch of her skin with a scalpel, gently peeling off the first few thin layers of skin, collecting them in precisely labeled containers. It was like a deep rugburn all over, her whole skin smarted. And like all small injuries, it hurt out of all proportion to its size. Then again, every single pore in her body was just-barely-bleeding; probably she _should_ feel like crap. When they shoved food in the magnetically-sealed slot an hour later, she weakly ate the nutritionally-balanced but tasteless food, and collapsed into sleep, hoping that this time she'd get more than a few hours of sleep before they came again.  
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-  
Well, what did you think? I know this one was more thoughts/feelings, but I like to set up what's going on in the first chapter. Don't worry, Remy makes an appearance in the next chapter—which, hey, look, is up too!  
If you have reactions, comments, &c, to this chapter, please put them in a brief review on this chapter—that way I know when you say "I like the imagery" or "I hate the imagery" or "what imagery" (or whatever) I know you're referring to stuff in THIS chapter, not just chapter 2.


	2. “With walls and towers were girded round

Xanadu  
by Alara

Chapter 2: "With walls and towers were girdled round:"

"Suffering, once accepted, loses its edge, for the terror of it lessens,

and what remains is generally far more manageable

than we had imagined." –Lesley Hazelton

_Three more goddamn weeks… I can't believe they haven't tried to get me out of here—why haven't they— did they forget about me? Or did they use this as an opportunity to be rid of me?_ Despite her best efforts, Rogue's rising sense of hope was giving way to despair as the experiments went on and on, and the damned aides had stopped mentioning rescue attempts.

_They'd better not have given up on me, not when I'm finally beginning to think I have some control—_was her only angry thought as she was wheeled, once again, to the experiment room. She was up to trial number 102, she thought, trying to remember what the last number she'd heard was. It seemed that those first three-and-a-quarter seconds were all she needed to advance in leaps and bounds in controlling her powers. Like a dam breached, advancement trickled at first, then began to flood. The chief scientist was getting excited, she could tell, nearly a sexual ecstasy at the level "his" achievements with her had gone to. She was up to an astonishing five and a half minutes' worth of contact, and the experiments they'd done seemed to indicate that it didn't matter how much or little skin was contacted, her resistance to absorption kept increasing. Fortunately for her, they had kept with kids for the absorb-ees; Rogue was interested to see that very little of them remained in her mind, unlike most of the mutants she'd absorbed. She was glad; she and Professor X had had a hard enough time re-organizing her mind after her powers went haywire. _Professor X… Kitty… Kurt… _She couldn't think of Professor X without thinking of the team, her friends; at the thought of _them, _her throat closed tight with tears—tears of loneliness, homesickness and betrayal, all at once.

Burst of light in her eyes—they were in the experiment room. She clamped down on her emotions, choked them far down. Now was not the time to be upset, out of control. There was something different in the room this time, though—instead of a street child, strapped to another gurney was a man a few years older than herself, perhaps 20 or 21 to her 17 years. Her pulse ratcheted up, fluttered unpleasantly in her throat. _O Gawd, they're gonna make me absorb someone who'll _stay _in my mind…_

He was unconscious; she studied his lax features while she had the chance. Long auburn hair, unkempt, tumbled forward over a high forehead over a straight, aristocratic nose. Well-formed cheekbones angled the face; a trace of blue-black stubble chased across his jawline. His mouth was parted slightly, wet darkness framed by kissable lips. She wished she could see his eyes…  
Like herself, the only clothing he had on was a hospital gown and lots of monitoring equipment. Presumably it was his pile of clothing on the table beside the threadbare remains of her own clothes. Obviously, they hadn't lured this one off of the streets; she wondered if that was why he was restrained, as well.

"Move Mutant Subject 13 nearer to Mutant Subject 7," the chief scientist instructed the aides. Rogue's pulse started a triple-time: the mystery man was another mutant! _He must've been sedated to keep him from using his powers,_ she thought. Then, a panicked thought chased on its heels: _They're gonna make me absorb him! God, if You have mercy, keep me from absorbing him somehow! _

The chief scientist finished adjusting his instruments on both of them after she was moved, then suddenly left the room. Rogue's interest was piqued; he'd never left the room before. Her curiosity was short-lived, though, as he returned, bringing a man dressed in some kind of military uniform with him.

"…We've made significant progress with this one, Sergeant Trask," the chief scientist was saying. "You said when we did a mutant-mutant run, to let you know. This is the first trial."

The sergeant surveyed the room with a cool eye. "Excellent," he pronounced. "I trust, Dr. Myers, you will inform me of the results of your experiments promptly? Do not let my presence alter your methods; I'll be in the facility today, conducting certain…business matters."

"Oh, certainly," the chief scientist—Dr. Myers—nodded. "Believe me, a bomb could hit this place and I wouldn't notice if I were in an experiment."

"And, of course, there is the consideration that I built this facility to be bomb-proof," Sgt. Trask remarked dryly.

Myers nodded, missing the sarcasm. "Well, have a good evening, sir."

"I will. And be sure that mutant is secure—those damned Xavier people were hanging around again. " With that, Trask left the room.

Myers then turned briskly to Rogue. "Do you hear that? Your friends are trying to get themselves killed. Don't you think eventually they'll give up and forget about you? They should, you know. Your power is useless to them."

Rogue only glared at him in answer, not betraying the flutter of fear that he was right. At her silence, he asked, "Mutant Subject 13, do you have any impressions you would like to share since our last session?"

Rogue glared at him. "Yeah, I'd like to tell you how much I hate being in this fuc—"

Myers cut her off. "Now, now. Temper. You really don't want me to have to keep you quiet, do you?" A glare was the answer he got. "I thought not. So! To get our other subject ready…" Myers picked up an already-filled syringe, and expertly inserted the needle into the other mutant's arm. He pushed the plunger down about halfway, and studied the effect on the younger man as the young mutant's eyes began to blink heavily. Obviously, he would be in no shape to use whatever powers he had for a while, unless his powers were like Scott's and entirely uncontrollable. But if that were the case, they wouldn't have him drugged and out of control… would they?

All thoughts chased momentarily out of her head as the man's eyes finally flickered fully open and met her own hazel gaze. Rogue was mesmerized: his eyes were red on black instead of the usual blue on white or brown on white. Fire was in his gaze; light actually seemed to flare behind his eyes as his glance touched upon Myers and the sergeant. Then, his eyes met her own, so close, and something in them shifted; a touch of pity and sadness, wry humor, and a deep concern were all in a second's worth of looking. Without taking his gaze from hers, he remarked casually to Myers, "_Bonjour, bâtard. _What you want wit' Gambit today? Be glad to blow some of dis machinery up for y'."

Rogue actually heard Myers' teeth grind as he replied, "I'll make you the same offer as Mutant Subject 13 in front of you; you keep quiet or I make you quiet. _Capisce?"_

"Sure, _bâtard_. Whatever you say."

Myers growled and turned away, adjusting the moniters. He missed the sudden sharpening of—Gambit's, was it?—gaze. The red-eyed man shifted his head, turning his ear toward the ceiling. Rogue listened intently, heard a faint buzz, familiar but couldn't place it…

The ceiling shattered downward suddenly. Gambit lunged his whole body forward, knocking his gurney against hers, shoving her out of the way of the worst of the debris before it came crashing down, pushed before a familiar red flash.

"Cyclops!" she shouted over the din. Mistake—it brought the stunned Myers' attention to her. He shoved her gurney into a corner, behind a pile of rubble, towards a door half-hidden by debris. Having got her out of the way, and completely out of sight, he started back to get his other precious test subject, Gambit. Then Wolverine fell out of _nowhere_ between Myers and the bound Gambit.

"Think yer goin' somewhere, bub? Not before you answer some questions about whatcha got goin' on around here," Wolverine growled. "Smells like a hospital… and I hate hospitals." His claws SNICK'd out of his hands.

Myers drew a syringe out of a pocket, grabbed a walkie-talkie from a nearby table, and shouted directions into it as he threw the full syringe at Logan. Logan merely grinned and brandished his claws, shredding the syringe as he jumped out of its path. That second's delay was all that was needed for troops—presumably Trask's—to pour into the room. As Myers hurried back to the hidden Rogue, they began to fire at Wolverine, perplexed when their bullets merely made him grunt in momentary pain. Then, a pair of the gunmen was suddenly swept backward by a focused beam of red light. Cyclops was dropped into the room by Jean, who landed lightly beside him on the rubble.

"Come to join the party?" Wolverine asked, grinning fiercely: he loved a good fight. The rest of the X-men flew or were BAMF'd in, until troops and X-men were matched one-for-one, X-men in between the troops and the captive Gambit. Kitty quickly phased him out of his gurney; he wobbled a bit, leaning on her, but grinned saucily.

"_Homme _could get used to being rescued by a cute li'l t'ing like y'." Kitty giggled slightly and blushed at his flirtatiousness. Then she and Kurt caught him together as his tall frame swayed unsteadily. "Den again, takes a lot out o' Gambit t' get t' the point where he be needing rescuing." He staggered backward against the wall, keeping low. "Ignore me f' now, _p'tite_, y' got more important things to worry about." He gestured at the troops, who were priming their guns. "Like dem!"

His warning came just in time; Kurt disappeared in a cloud of sulfur and burnt brimstone and Kitty went transparent as a rain of bullets tore through the X-men's ranks. Jean protected herself, Scott, and Storm with a psychic shield; and Evan's skateboarding reflexes stood him in good stead as he leapt out of the way. Cyclops, Jean, and Storm began to fight the troops as Gambit grabbed the pile of his and Rogue's clothing from where they'd fallen. Then he began to quietly make his way toward where he'd last seen Myers heading with Rogue.

"Nightcrawler, Half Pint, you get anyone you can out of here, all right?" Wolverine ordered. "We'll deal with these jokers."

"No problem!" Nightcrawler called, and he and Kitty phased through the nearest wall.

Wolverine looked over at Scott. "I can smell her, Scott, she was here _sometime…_"

"Can you tell how recently?"

"No."

"Damn. So we don't know that she might have been moved somewhere else?"

"She might have been." Wolverine grunted as more bullets impacted him.

A cry interrupted their clipped conversation: Jean. Scott ran to her as she fell, blood streaming from her shoulder where a bullet had lodged itself.

"Jean! Are you all right?"

"Sure, never better." She said sickly, her face paling before she passed out.

"Shit. We'll have to abandon the mission!" He yelled to Wolverine.

"Abandon—? But, Scott, Rogue could be right around here!"

"We don't know that for certain. We don't even know that she's in this complex, and I am not letting anyone else be caught or killed by these maniacs!"

Wolverine growled to himself at that, but had to acknowledge the strategic sense—you just didn't let others fall into enemy hands on a rescue mission.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"_Merde_," Remy muttered, seeing only an open door amidst the rubble of the ceiling. "Where dat _bâtard_ go wit' de _femme_?" He sighed and moved cautiously through the doorway, his thief's instincts at a fever-pitch. Even so, he nearly missed the pipe swung at his head in the semi-darkness of the hallway. He ducked and grabbed the pipe as it whooshed by. With a bit of concentration, it began to glow a hellish fuschia.

"B—but," Myers sputtered, seeing the glow envelop the pipe, "You can't use your powers when you're sedated!"

Gambit grinned. "Good t'ing Gambit be a fast healer, _non_? I t'ink you dropped dis, _homme_," he added, and hurled the kinetically charged pipe at Myers' head. The scientist ducked, and the pipe exploded against the wall, blowing a large hole in it. Myers took off running at the blast. Gambit started to follow, then remembered his purpose in following the scientist: that fascinatingly beautiful young woman, who was presumably still strapped to her gurney. He peered through the smoke and dust and dim light, thanking whatever God cursed him with demonic eyes that at least the eyes saw well in poor conditions.

In a very little time he found her, the gurney overturned, her face pressed against broken shards of brick. He quickly released her, gathered her up, and cursed the flimsy material of the hospital gowns; many shards of sharp material had pierced her skin—or was that the aftermath of their experiments on her? His own experiences in the room hadn't been pleasant, to say the least; he could only imagine what they'd done to someone as vulnerable-looking as she.

"Well, first t'ings first," he muttered to himself. He quickly pulled on his own pair of Trask-issue pants and loose-fitting shirt, then moved toward the girl, her clothes in hand.  
A pair of gray-green hazel eyes glittered in the darkness, heavily lidded but fully aware. "Y'all weren't thinkin' of dressing me, were you, sugar?" her voice drawled in the darkness.

"Well, now you not be helpless no mo', I don't suppose I will," Remy returned mock-sarcastically, tossing her clothes within her reach. She winced as she leaned forward to grab them. Concern etched his face. He moved closer to her. "_Chere, _do y' need a hand? Remy willing to help a _femme _in need. No strings attached," he added lightly, seeing her face flush at his gallantry.

Her face burning, Rogue admitted, "I could use help standing. They always sedate me before they take me to that room…" she shuddered.

Burning red eyes studied her for a brief moment before replied, "Y' need a shoulder to lean on? No problem." He extended a strong arm down to her, and when she tentatively grasped his arm with her bare hand, he hauled her to her feet, then slung his other arm around her torso, holding her upright until she found her balance. He averted his gaze as she quickly pulled her own Trask-issue mutant uniform on over bare white skin. She awkwardly tapped his arm. "I'm decent. Thanks." She added lamely.

"_Non problemme, belle._ Now, let's you and Remy go see how that bastard Trask's men are doing, _hein?" _

They moved along the hall gingerly, bare feet sensitive on every fragmented bit of wall or ceiling on the floor. "Remy?" she questioned. "I thought it was Gambit?"  
Flash of white grin. "Gambit be a working name, _chere_. _M'appelle _Remy LeBeau, t'ief and charmer at y' service. And you?"

"Oh. I'm Rogue." She glanced down at her bare arms. "This is blunt, but I've got to warn you, don't touch me for too long or my mutation will kick in and drain you dry."

His eyebrows lifted. "You an energy-taker then, _chere?"_

She shrugged. "Energy, memories, powers… life, I s'pose, if I hung on long enough."

He pursed those lips in a soundless whistle. "Dat a hard hand to be dealt. Remy, well, he usually deals wit' a deck o' cards. He charges de cards, and de cards go boom. Can pull the kinetic energy in anyt'ing out all at once."

"Is _that_ what happened to that wall back there?"

Another grin. "'Tis indeed." He lifted a finger to his lips, indicating the doorway they'd arrived at. "Dis be where the firefight goin' down, we don't want to be in the crossfire if we can help it. But at de same time, we might be able to get out of this hellhole. So: quiet-like, now, we go." He crouched low and went through the doorway silently. After a second's hesitation, Rogue took a deep breath and followed him into the darkness.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Kurt jumped as his communicator crackled to life. Cyclops' voice cracked through urgently. "Nightcrawler, Shadowcat, stop whatever you're doing, get back to the Blackbird. We have to evacuate—Jean's been shot!"

"We haven't found Rogue yet," Kurt offered tentatively. "And zere's ztill another 6 cells of prisoners we haven't set free yet—"

"Don't question my orders, Nightcrawler! Just get back here now or you'll have to teleport yourselves home! We need to get Jean back to the Institute, and we can't afford to waste any more time here. We really shouldn't have come at all, the risk was too great, and now look what happened."

Kurt sighed, and exchanged a downhearted look with Kitty. "We're on our vay." He grasped Kitty's hand and they disappeared in a swirl of brimstone and sulfurous smoke.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rogue was amazed at this Remy guy's ability to move silently. _Maybe he wasn't kidding about being a thief,_ she thought as she followed in his wake. _Certainly moves enough like one._

Remy's hand came up sharply, freezing her in place as effectively as The Cart rattling down the hall. "What's going on?" She whispered tentatively.

"Listen, I think they're all clearing out," he whispered back, and fell silent. They heard Scott's voice, though of course only Rogue recognized it. _"…we can't afford to waste any more time here. We really shouldn't have come at all, the risk was too great, and now look what happened." _

Rogue gasped involuntarily, pain sudden, like a punch in the gut. Tears stung her eyes. They were _so close…_ and they were just going to _leave_ her here? They were "wasting time" here? She was "too great a risk?" She had been right, despite her waxing and waning sense of hope: they _had_ given her up; this had just been a last-ditch effort to salve their own consciences. The gunfire started again, and she couldn't contain herself. She screamed in the X-men's direction. "_You can't leave me!_ I'm _right here!_ I'm right here! Please don't… leave… me…in this…hell…" She broke down into sobs, not noticing at first the warm, sympathetic arms that surrounded her, that muffled the sound of her grief from the gun-toting troops. She did notice, however, when those arms suddenly tightened to a crushing grip, picked her up, and began to run back the way they came.  
"W-what—is going—on—Remy?" She got out between his springy, bounding strides.

"Dose troops, dey be heading dis way, and Remy be damned if he gon' let de _belle femme _and himself be caught again." He stopped talking as he ducked through the hole he'd put in the wall earlier. He skidded to a halt briefly, long enough to set Rogue down on her feet, then tore a scrap of fabric from his shirt-tail and gripped her hand hard through it. "Look for a room with lights on, dere tend to be lights near exit doors. We be needing to run now, chere," he warned her, then took off, nearly dislocating her shoulder before she caught his stride.

They ran through what seemed like miles of dark, quiet, clean corridors until they suddenly found themselves in a brightly lit anteroom. There was a door ajar at the other end. Quietly they crept up to the door, and peered through the window set into it. Their eyes widened at what they saw.

Trask sat to one side of the enormous boardroom table. Three men in dark suits sat on the other. A fourth dark-suited man stood at the near end of the table, a gun in hand. Before him knelt a trooper dressed in Trask's uniform, his hands bound behind his back.

"Mr. Thomson," the man with the gun said, "You've been very bad to me and my family. My family and I cannot take people disrespecting them. Do you know how you have disrespected us?"

The kneeling man had tears pouring down his face. He shook his head vigorously.

"Well, then, allow me to educate you. Mr. Thomson, you informed the police about our little operation here. We do not take kindly to that sort of thing in our family."

_What's all this talk about 'family,' _Rogue wondered. _They sound like they're in the mob or something. _

"All we are doing, as good businessmen, Mr. Thomson, is donating our money to a private institution dedicated to the research and containment of the mutant menace. Now, why did you feel the need to let the police know about out arrangement?"

"Because it's money laundering!" The man burst out. "I know where your money comes from—the drugs, and the extortion, and the protection rackets, and the blackmail—and it'd be bad enough if you were running it through a legitimate business, but what you're doing here is torture! It's inhumane! They're all just kids!"

_Holy crap, it is the mob!_

"So you _do_ admit to telling, Mr. Thomson. A bad decision, to admit to telling." The gunman said flatly, and pulled the trigger. The sound seemed to take an eternity to reach Rogue and Remy where they hid behind the door. The body, huge hole in the head, fell toward the door. The men in the room watched the body fall—

—And leapt to their feet as they realized there were watchers behind the door.

Remy's eyes widened. "_Merde_," he muttered, and leapt up, grabbed Rogue by the wrist, and ran faster than ever, recklessly tearing down hallways, around corners, past darkened doors—

"Wait! I saw an exit sign," Rogue panted. "Down that hall we just passed." She staggered against him when he paused; she was exhausted.

A grim look fixed on his face, Remy grabbed Rogue around the waist, and supported her weight as they ran pell-mell down the hallway. _Mon Dieu, it _is_ a door,_ Remy thought briefly as they crashed through the door, into dawn—

Right into a ring of police officers with guns trained upon them.

"Get your hands UP!" One of them shouted. "Don't move!"  
There was a breath of silence, then, "They're gonna kill us!" Rogue blurted out, gasping for breath. Fear was painted on her face. "Please, help us…" she nearly sobbed. Exhausted from weeks of poor sleep, numerous experimentations, and a terrifying night of running, on top of emotional stabs to the heart, she began to crumple to the ground. Remy caught her, and, being in not much better shape himself, followed her to sit on the dewy ground, where they folded against each other like string-cut marionettes.

The officer who had yelled at them stepped closer, cautiously, and straightened when he saw the condition the pair were in. "Get an ambulance here for these two! I dunno what's been done, but I think these were a couple of the captives our informant was telling us about."

"He's dead," Remy said softly.

The officer peered at him. "What?"

"I said, he be dead," Remy repeated, a little louder. "De _fille_ and I, we jus' saw dem do him in not even a half hour ago."

"Shee-it," the cop muttered to himself. "This puts a whole new spin on things…" He walked walked over to his car and picked up the radio. He spoke briefly into it, and came back to where the two were huddled on the ground. "Well, you two are a special case, now. You'll have to wait a minute—oh, wait, here he is."

_Here _who_ is?_ Remy wondered.

Another car pulled up nearby, and a man in a suit got out. He flashed an ID at the cop. "These are the ones?" The cop nodded. "Okay, I'll be taking over from here, then. You can go."

The cop glanced between Remy and Rogue and the man, and sighed. "Well, when you're right, you're right. Make sure they get some medical care, though, before you go sending them off to Tuscaloosa or wherever, huh? They're young."

"Tuscaloosa? What's going on?" Rogue asked, leaning against Remy, who felt as confused as she looked.

The man looked down at them grimly through his sunglasses. He flashed his ID at them: Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"I'm afraid you two have just checked yourself into the Witness Protection Program."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

So… love it? Hate it? Don't care? Want something else done? Let me know, either click that happy little review button there, or e-mail me at I just stayed up 'til 4am writing this… :)


	3. “…this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil see

NOTE: Review replies, which may or may not be in every chapter, will be found at the END of the chapter, so non-reviewers don't have to scroll, scroll, scroll, MISS, scroll back, scroll back… However, the actual text of the replies is jotted down before the writing of the chapter so I have feedback to carry into the next chapter. (Hope that all makes sense…) Now, onto the chapter—!

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 3: "…this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething"

After the local police had cleared the building, Rogue and Remy were herded into an ambulance. The FBI agent, whose name was Agent Felix, followed close behind. To no-one's surprise, all of the mobsters had gotten away cleanly, without a trace. Apparently, as soon as they realized they had been seen, they escaped. Rogue and Remy were told that the other mutants had been freed, most of them weakly walking out of the building and gratefully clambering into the waiting ambulances. They didn't actually see the other captives; for their own safety, they were being kept well out of sight of the media.

Rogue and Remy huddled against each other beneath a borrowed blanket, moving as little as possible, as they sat on the floor of the ambulance they had been directed to. The paramedics insisted on examining both of them at least cursorily. They swabbed their mouths—_bitter taste of bile on the back of her tongue, metal chasing her breath as she woke from whatever They'd given her_—scraped beneath their fingernails—_he flinched as they peeled back layer after layer of skin on his sensitive finertips, trying to determine if his ability to charge items up was from his skin or somewhere else—_listened to their hearts—_both of theirs forcibly slowed, speeded, stressed to see how the mutant genome reacted—_ checked their breathing—_hers caught again, pressed out of her lungs as the Cart neared those doors—_shone bright lights into their eyes—_he shuddered; his odd-colored eyes had been particularly interesting to them, he could still feel the lids being pulled back to their utmost—! _After twenty minutes, Rogue finally had had enough.  
"That's it!" she exclaimed, jumping up. She tossed the blanket aside, striking the paramedic's hand away from her, shaking. "I've been examined every couple of hours for the past three months," she raged raggedly. "Haven't I been examined enough? You want samples of my skin, of my blood, of any part of me, you look in that bastard's files and in his lab. He's got it all. He's got more than you want, more than you need. What more is there to see? Can't you leave me alone? Leave us both alone!" By the end of her rant, she was weeping. Remy stood beside her supportively, his hand gently cupping her upper arm, burning eyes glaring at the paramedic. He leaned his head against hers, and his own hot tears struck her face, mingling with her own.

"I know, _chere_," he murmured against the white streak in her messy hair. "It's been too much, dese months. For all of us in dere."

She shivered, and turned her face into his chest; he tucked his head over hers. His demonic gaze met Agent Felix's squarely. "You gon' get us out of here, _homme, _or should we just walk away? Either way, we're not staying here no more. I agree with de _petite,_ no more."

The agent's mouth tightened; obviously, he didn't like being told what to do, any more than he apparently liked teenagers. "Follow me," he said shortly, and led the pair to a nondescript black car parked nearby. They all got in, Felix in the driver's seat, Rogue and Remy in the back. Without a word to the police officers still investigating the complex, they left.

"We'll try to push you through the settlement process, given your…current emotional states." Felix offered, after a few minutes' silent drive. "I know this is all unfamiliar to you kids, but the sooner we get you established in your new lives, the better. Now, I need to know: do either of you have family who might wonder where you are? We need to get them into the Program, too, if you do."

"M' _famille_ is used to not seeing me for long stretches of time," Remy said. "Dey not gon' worry none 'about Remy. How 'bout you, _chere_?" He asked the girl under his arm.

Rogue considered the question for a moment, silent tears cascading from her eyes. "I… I don't have a family anymore," she said finally, staring blankly out the window. Her shoulders rolled forward, slumped, as she made the pronouncement. Remy gave her a worried look, but said nothing.

"Ah," Felix said awkwardly, when it became clear she wasn't going to offer any more information. "I suppose that makes things easier on my end, at least. And easier on you, too; oftentimes, separating from family can be the hardest part of entering the Program." He cleared his throat. "Well. Here's what's going to happen: we'll move you two into one of our safe houses, establish new identities for you, get you jobs, that sort of thing. You'll have to memorize your new identity, and live as though you have always been that person, at least as well as you are able. You'll be given contact information in case you think you've been discovered; otherwise, your time is generally your own. We'll have agents check in on you from time to time. You're not to leave the immediate area of the safe house without securing permission." He paused, seeking a reaction from either of them. He got none. "Don't be worried. There will be a week-long session to get into your new roles before you're moved to the safe house. And you'll be given time to recover from your…recent ordeals…both mentally and physically before any of this process starts. Should we ever capture the hitmen who killed our informant, you'll be required to testify to what you saw this morning. Any questions for me?"

"Are we both going to the same place?" Rogue asked, trying not to show the desperation behind the query. _I just lost everyone else who ever helped or cared for me, I don't want to lose the person who saved me, the one person who was willing to be hurt to free me._

Felix's eyebrows lifted in the rearview mirror. "Of course. It's far easier to keep track of two witnesses to the same crime if they're in the same place."

"Ah, _Dieu,_ t'ank y," Remy muttered, falling backward against the seat. At Rogue's surprised look, he half smiled, "Gone to such trouble to see you kept in one piece, _chere_, be a shame to let you go off on y' own."

"I don't need some—some _swamp rat_ to keep me in one piece," she shot back, temper unexpectedly flaring. "I can take care of myself perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"Mebbe so, but den dis poor Cajun be all 'lone, and he doesn't want to be all 'lone when he could be with such a _beau femme _instead" He pulled his best 'adorable pout' look.

Rogue pulled a face. "You're full of it, Cajun," she snorted, "No one wants to be around _me_ for long," she said, more sincerely than she had intended, a trace of overwhelming sadness and a hint of anger creeping into her tone. _Yeah, no one wants to be around me, including my 'new family, the X-men.' I wonder how long it took for them to decide that they really didn't want that moody, Goth, useless team member back. Bastards._

Remy had noticed Rogue's earlier despair, after those weird people in Spandex, who had attacked the lab, left without taking her with them. _Poor femme,_ he thought, studying her profile, those interesting white streaks nearly blending into her pale skin. _She t'ink she finally being rescued, and dose batârds leave her there instead. Dat really was a pitiful rescue attempt. I'm not going to leave her now, anyone can see she don't deserve to be treated like that. _"I'm not going to leave," he said to Rogue, whose gaze darted to his own for a startled instant. "Remy kinda thinks he'd like to get to know this strong, fiery _femme_ a little better first."

"Strong." She snorted again. "Sure, falling over from not being able to stand up, crying at the littlest thing…"

"Remy not able to stand, neither. And Remy cries, too," he reminded her. "And Remy wasn't de one dey took out more often than anyone else; Remy's not de one who kept sane for all that time."

"I'm not so sure 'bout that 'sane' part," she confessed. "I'm not sure they didn't drive me a little crazy."

"Den Remy crazy, too, for wanting to be with you, _non_?" The charming smile was back. "We be a little crazy together, den, _chere_."

"Together," Rogue repeated. Then a smile, small but there, spread across her features, lightening her whole look. "Together. I like the sound of that, Cajun."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"You—you _what_? Scott, how could you?" Jean yelled from her bed in the medical wing.

His cheeks reddened for an instant, and he returned, "You had been shot, I couldn't know how badly. We _had_ to leave."

"Had to leave, my ass." Jean said crudely, anger lacing her voice. "You could have had Kurt teleport me back to the Blackbird, or Storm carry me. You didn't have to recall everyone and call off the search!"

"It was no use anyway, we didn't see any sign of her, even in early reconnaissance." Scott said bitterly. "For all we know, she hasn't been there since the first week. That's the only time we _know_ she was there for sure."

"It doesn't matter! She is in their hands, where ever she is. Who knows what they've done to her? They've had her for _three months_!"

Scott ground out, "You were hurt. For the safety of the team members we _do _have, I made a decision. That decision was made as a commander, not as a friend. I'm sorry if you don't agree, but I did nothing wrong!"  
"Maybe that's the problem, Scott Summers!" Jean yelled at him as he left the medical wing. "You _left_ her there, and you don't think there's anything wrong with it!"  
Scott growled to himself. How dare Jean try to make him feel guilty… He felt bad enough on his own. _I can't lose another X-man, look how the loss of even our most useless member has weakened us, torn us all apart. We can't lose anyone else. Never again. And it's not like we won't get Rogue back. Today just wasn't that day. Just… not today._

Back in the medical wing, Jean kept screaming at Scott, demanding he "Come back and _face _me, damnit!" Guilt weighed on her, too. _I can't believe I let myself get distracted and get shot. If I hadn't been hit, Scott wouldn't have overreacted and pulled the team. We might have been able to get to Rogue today if it weren't for me. _ She screamed her frustration, a wordless grate of sound.   
Dr. McCoy walked quietly in the doorway, ignoring her screams. "Jean," he said gently, "your wound might be superficial, but if you don't calm down and get some rest, it will take you longer to heal. You know that."

Jean sighed, and tried to calm down. "I know. But I can't sleep, I'm too angry and upset and worried about Rogue to sleep. Can't I just go back to my room?"

Hank smiled at her. "I'm afraid not. And you're not the only one with problems resting after this morning, but you _are_ the only one who _must_ get some rest." He inserted a syringe into her IV and pushed the plunger down. "This will help you sleep. We'll wake you if the situation changes." Jean muttered incoherently, the painkillers taking their effect. Hank straightened, watched her sleep for a moment, and then left the room.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To Jean, it seemed like only minutes later that Professor Xavier's familiar voice was echoing in her mind. :_All X-men, please report to my office as soon as possible.:_ Jean sent a wordless question in the professor's direction. _:Yes, you also, Jean. There's something I think you all should see.: _Jean climbed out of bed, careful of her injured shoulder. _The wound must not be too bad_, she mused. _It only feels like I got punched really, really hard_. _I'm glad Dr. McCoy made me sleep, though. I wonder what time it is…_ She got dressed, and started to make her way toward the professor's office. She was startled when she passed a clock which told her that it was a quarter past seven at night. _Wasn't it just 8:30 am when I went to sleep?_ She thought, marveling at how long she'd slept.

When she entered the professor's office, she found she was the last one there. Kurt, Kitty, Evan, Storm, Cyclops, Dr. McCoy, and Wolverine were already ranged around the room. The professor sat behind his desk, a remote control on the clean tabletop in front of him.

"Ah, Jean. I'm glad you felt up to coming to this meeting." While his words were cordial, Jean couldn't help but notice that the professor was keeping a very tight hold on his emotions. He didn't seem to want to look any of the X-men in the face, either. Quietly he said, "Now. The reason for the meeting. This is a tape of the evening news segment about our…activities this morning. There is some information here I think you all ought to see." He pressed a button on the remote, and the television set into the wall flared to life. The news anchor's voice came in the middle of a sentence.

"—fire and sound near dawn in a building in Panelott Township marked an explosive end to a sting operation. Police are not saying much, but our investigators here at WKKT have found that it appears that at least a half-dozen older teens and young adults were being held in cells in the building. Our investigators have got these exclusive shots of police leading the prisoners out after the sting operation, which was inspired by an anonymous tip to police."

The image shifted from the bleached teeth of the anchor to footage of young men and women, dark hollows beneath their wild, staring eyes, clothes hanging from thin frames as they were walked toward waiting ambulances. Two actually needed to lean on the officers escorting them; another flinched violently at the dawn sunlight.

The anchor's voice spoke over the silent image, "As we said previously, police are not releasing any information about the location or about the people found inside. Several of those apprehended were armed, and spent bullet casings indicate that a firefight took place at approximately the same time as the explosions occurred. The explosions were focused on a medical laboratory at the centre of the complex. The cause of those explosions is as yet unknown. It is theorized that the lab was set up to self-destruct if the complex were ever breached, hinting at the nature of the procedures performed in the lab."

"Sadly, it also appears that one of the unfortunate young prisoners was in or near the laboratory at the time of the explosions. We believe this person was killed in the blast; police have not released the identity of the body seen here." The video shifted to a long shot of a body bag being carried out of the building. Gasps were heard around Xavier's office, which 'til now had been tensely, breathlessly silent.

Logan's claws SNIKT'd in and out, his face showing distress. "It's gotta be her, Chuck," he said, voice choked. "She was close, real close, when we were there. I could smell her, even over the smoke and the gunpowder." Kitty began to cry; Kurt, manfully holding back his own tears, hugged her tightly.

Xavier's eyes, dark with pain and remorse, shifted back to the television as the anchor's face came back on. "Investigators do not know why these young people were being held, as there seems to be no common link amongst them. There are a number of theories as to the purpose of the place, however. The condition of the prisoners, as well as the presence of the medical laboratory leads us to believe that the complex was used as a custom sex-fetish shop. In such establishements, young people are abducted and purchased at high price as slaves. Then, before being sent to their owners, they are physically altered to suit the owners' tastes." The idea of such a place seemed even to unsettle even the normally unflappable anchor, who took a shallow breath before continuing, "The death of one of the prisoners moves this from a sex crime to a capital crime. Anyone who thinks they might have information, please call the number at the bottom of the screen. Anyone who thinks one of their family members might be one of the captives can arrange to meet them at Mercy Medical Center in New York. We'll keep you updated on this story as we get more information. Stay tuned to WKKT. Now to the weather. John?" The video cut off in black and white static.

Xavier switched the television off, and the team sat, stunned. Tears were on all faces now. Kurt jumped up, and stormed angrily over to Scott. "This is your fault," he snarled. Scott, startled, lifted his head from his hands. "You heard Logan—she was there! And because you made us leave, she's dead! She's dead…" Kurt's anger faded as quickly as it had flared as he fell to his knees, sobbing. "I'm sorry, _mein freund_. I didn't mean that."

Scott's face hardened, tears tracking from his visor. "It's still true, though."

Xavier interrupted. "Stop," he instructed gently. "She could have been killed before we even got there, if she was really in the medical lab at all this morning. Blame Trask and those who took her, not yourselves."

His words rang hollowly, though, in the grief-filled room.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Review replies:  
**melrick**—still writing so far… not planning on stopping soon.  
**Eileen Blazer**—hmm. maybe I can work in a mulder cameo… You get a cookie, not only for kicking my arse to write & post, but also for being the only one to review chapters separately. I think that's an Oreo-level coolness. Or maybe homemade chocolate chip… and you keep writing, yourself! People who are liking this, please go read and review her "Freedom Caper," it's what pretty much inspired me to get my hand back into writing.

**TheRogueAuthor**—how did "Xanadu" throw you off? Olivia Newton-John? I'm confused… :) Don't worry, won't let it throw me. Much. (Olivia Newton-John?)  
**ishandahalf**—holy cow, I've rated a "quick like a bunny on crack" of ishy fame! Woohoo me! AND a "huzzah!" –ok, writing, writing… scribbles frantically on lunch break at internship —not kidding, actually did that to-day. So, it's been a stressful time for our loverly pair, they'll be going through some natural emotional roller coasters, but I hope to keep the essential characters the same, and have them grow naturally as the story goes on. Which it will. For a while, I think.   
silky black—I figure I just answered, "Are they going to be in WP together". Lol. More soon, a "getting to know you" bit.

**Sleepy26**—undivided attention, huh? Well wait no more. Here's the next chapter!

**lollipop**—uhm. Sorry. Confused? Don't let the feebies pressure them into—what? Please drop me an e-mail, I think you were making a constructive criticism or advisement, but I couldn't understand it. :)

**emi13**—yeah, YOU say it's worth staying up til 4am to write… my morning professors were not so appreciative lol.

**EmeraldKatsEye**—yay Eileen, drag more ppl here! Oh, thank you! Glad to know you think my characterization/setting, et cetera, et cetera, is good. (C'mon, when's the last time you saw "&c" written out in Latin?)

**Roguechere**—I have your interest, do I? How much can I get for that on the black market:) Glad you're along for the ride.

enchantedlight—This soon enough?

**DemonicGambit**—Glad you "Love it! Love it!" Why the heck would I not continue—I'm all excited about the WP thing now, too, thanks to all of the reviews with "OMG, Witness Protection that is soooooo cool" in it. I'm like, "Woo, yeah, Witness Protection, that's a cool twist, wonder who came up wi—oh. Yeah. Right."

**Lady godiva**— Haha, glad someone liked me tossing in the Classic Enemy, the Mafia. And of COURSE Remy rescued her, he's really a stand-up guy (sorta) beneath the thievish exterior… Oh, and don't worry, Rogue's _plenty_ bitter about the X-men just taking off. Angst in store there, bay-bee!


	4. “And there were gardens bright with sinu

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 4: "And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills"

Rogue nervously smoothed down the front of the sweater she'd chosen to wear. It was dark green, three-quarter-sleeved, and although she now had partial control over her power, going without gloves still made her antsy. She liked the color of it, though, and it was either three-quarter sleeves or short sleeves. The Feds wouldn't let her have gloves; they said it was too distinctive an affectation; it would help the hitmen to identify her more easily if she wore them. While she could appreciate the reason for not wearing gloves, that didn't make her any more comfortable with it. Especially since it turned out that her hair refused to dye. That bold white streak through the rich auburn was a bigger giveaway than her penchant for glove-wearing, she thought; apparently, however, the Feds didn't agree. She supposed the fact that dyes simply wouldn't take to the silver-white _might_ have something to do with it; anything they'd tried washed out in a couple of days.

She stared into the mirror without really seeing her reflection, instead musing on the whirlwind of the past several weeks. She and Remy had spent three weeks in the hospital physically recovering from all that had been done to them. Rogue's skin had had to be treated with numerous antibiotics to ensure she didn't get an infection. Remy's eyes had had to be worked on extensively, since that was apparently the part of Remy that interested Trask the most; he was wearing sunglasses more often now. Both had suffered from severe sleep deprivation, poor nutrition, deep bruising from the restraints, and, of course, emotional and mental trauma. An extra two weeks had been spent exclusively on dealing with the mental side of things, and, finally, a week to be introduced into "the Program" by Agent Felix, and to be settled into her and Remy's new lives.

_Gawd, I can't believe it's been almost two whole months since we escaped that hellhole,_ she thought, looking in the mirror. She felt that her altered physical appearance was fitting; she felt much different now than before she was captured. Her hair had grown out—it had been a total of three months in Trask's keeping, plus this extra couple of months of recovery since her last haircut. Today, their last day here, she'd finally got a nurse with a stylist's license to give her a trim. Her hair now hung to her shoulder blades, the white streak brilliant against the dark chestnut-auburn.

To her chagrin, her childhood curls had begun to wave back into her hair as it got longer. It embarrassed her, this more girlish look. When Remy had noticed the curls, though, he had smiled, oddly tender, brushed his hand across them. "De curls, dey suit y', _chere_," he'd said. "Remy t'inks you should keep dem. Make you look even more _belle_ than before, which he didn't t'ink was possible." She had laughed, but kept the loosely-curly length. She considered herself in the mirror: Longer hair, which framed her face now, instead of hiding it; still pale skin, but translucently pale, not thick-painted; much less makeup on the bright green eyes, although still a hint of the Goth in the darker, dramatically outswept eyeliner. Same willowy, almost boyish figure, but less tense, she thought. _I look like I can relax sometimes now,_ she thought. _That's one thing that bastard Trask did for me, besides give me something to really hate. And something I can depend on—Remy… _

The thought of Remy made her blush and smile to herself. He was outrageously flirtatious one moment, heartbreakingly tender the next, and deadly serious the moment after that. He was a conundrum, and Rogue had never been able to resist puzzles. He had stayed faithfully beside her through her physical recovery, as she had stayed by his; occasionally he'd flirt with a nurse, but she noticed it seemed more out of habit than desire. Mostly, his attention was focused on Rogue and Rogue alone, and how he could help her.

Their mental therapy was most often done with the both of them; the psychologist assigned to them by the FBI noticed that both of the young people seemed to get more out of the sessions when with each other. Sharing the terrors of their time there—when they were together, yet apart 'til the last day—helped both of them begin to heal. Each session bound the two closer in their shared experience, and they continued learning about each other as they spent more time together.

Even so, during some one-on-one sessions, the therapist, Dr. Baker, had managed to help Rogue deal with some of the trauma of having her friends abandon her, and the more long-standing problem of feeling like an outsider because of her inability to touch. Remy had had one-on-one sessions with Dr. Baker, too. When Rogue emerged from one session with both tears and a smile on her face, he only slung an arm around her shoulders and murmured to her knowingly, "She be a damn fine head-shrinker, don't she? Helped Remy wit' some things he didn't even realize need fixing."

She had given him a watery smile, and they'd gone off to physical therapy together, talking of lighter matters.

_Talking._ That was a side of Rogue that Remy had brought out that she had not even realized existed—a laughing, talkative _girl_. Not a girly girl, Rogue was too tough to ever be that, but—someone more feminine, more flirtatious, than the pissy Gothic Rogue would ever have been. _More ladylike,_ Rogue thought, and the thought fit. _Maybe it's because I can touch—for a time—now. Maybe that's all that it is. But being with Remy, well, it's like the sun is shining on me when he's around. It's hard to be angry all the time like I was at—Xavier's--_ The familiar ache, duller now but still felt, squeezed her throat painfully. _I still almost can't believe they just _left_ me. It's not fair. It's not my fault I didn't get a power that was effective in a fight. I'm soo sorry, Cyclops, that I can't annihilate a building with a look, that I've _worked_ for some control over my powers, but that's no reason to leave me by the road like the runt of a litter of kittens!_

A knock at the door. "_Chere?_" Came Remy's tenor voice. "Y' ready t'go?"

She jumped a little, startled. "Yeah, I s'pose so." The door opened, to reveal a tall man with newly-trimmed long hair and goatee, although somehow his hair still managed to be in disarray. Red eyes swept over her teasingly, and he wolf-whistled. "Well, _ma belle femme _does clean up well, for a river rat." His R's purred across the room.

"You're not so bad-looking yourself, Cajun," she said, mockingly overly sweet. "Care to give a lady your arm?"

"But of course_, mademoiselle_," he said, bowing to her, foppishly low, and extending his arm to her. "Let's go see what Agent Felix has found for us to live in, shall we?"

"I can't believe it's far away enough we have to _fly _there," she grumbled, grabbing the suitcase of new clothes she had bought on the FBI's dollar the other day. It had been amusing, shopping with a female FBI agent along. The agent had actually made some good suggestions. "I just hope it's not someplace like… I dunno… Missouri or something."

"We'll have to deal with de cards as dey be laid, _chere_, y' know that."

She sighed, leaning against his strong arm. "Yeah. That doesn't mean I have to like it." He gave her a look, and she chuckled at her own whining. "I know, I know… Well, at least however bad it is, I know you'll be right there beside me enduring every last living second of it, too."

"I'll always be there, _chere_." Remy grinned, picked up his own bag, and walked her out the door to Agent Felix's waiting car. _Dieu, help me,_ he prayed silently, watching Rogue place her bags into the trunk. _What'm I gon' do? I t'ink I be seriously falling for dis fille. Dat ain't never happened befo', and merde, it's scary. Dr. Bowman says she's strong enough to handle de demons of my past, 'specially since we been bonded t'rough our time with Trask. An' I think my empathy's feeding through her—we're making each other happy just now. I really don't want that happy look on her face to go away for any reason, though. I especially don't want it going away on my account. So, Dieu, Jesu, if Y' have any mercy at all, help me to keep that light in her face. I don't t'ink she's had dis much happiness in a long, long time. I don' wanna chase it away._

"You two all set?" Agent Felix asked from where he leaned against his car.

"Ready as anyone can ever be for starting new identities, I guess," Rogue replied before clambering into the back seat with Remy. His arm settled into its familiar place on the headrest behind her shoulders. She leaned her neck against the warmth of his arm gratefully.

"Here are your plane tickets," Felix said as he handed Remy a manila envelope. "In the envelope are your new IDs—licenses, that sort of thing—the keys to your new apartment, and the information for your bank accounts. I can't go on the plane with you, but you've been prepared for how to behave. There will be an agent at the airport to meet you and settle you into your new place. You have my contact information, the information for your doctors here, and the information for Dr. Baker, should you need her for any reason. Is there anything else you can think of that you need?"

Remy considered. "Hot shot of bourbon would go down nice right now," he joked, gesturing at the snowy roadside passing by. At Felix's wry look, he said, "I s'pose that can wait 'til the plane trip, though, _non?"_

"Yes." Felix said dryly. "It can. Seriously…"

"They never told us," Rogue said, "are we allowed to call each other by our real names when we're alone?"

"If you're truly alone, it makes no difference. But when you're in the Program, it's best to assume you never really are alone. I'd say, be cautious in use of real names, all right?"

Rogue's eyes dropped at the mild rebuke. "Well, _fine_. Don't need to be snappish 'bout it," she muttered rebelliously, slouching down in her seat.

Remy smiled into his palm. Living with this _femme_ would never be boring, he could tell.

Rogue took the envelope from him and dumped its contents out onto her lap. "I'm… Roisin Dubh Broin? She pronounced the words carefully: ROY-sheen duv broin (like "coin"). " She looked up. "What the Sam-hill kinda name is that?"

"It's Irish; we take whole names from death records to construct new identities. Since you don't actually know your heritage, our researchers matched you with the most likely one. They said your dark hair, pale skin and slender build matched the 'Irish' profile exactly. I'd imagine the part you are looking at is an alternate spelling from the one you'd use everyday."

Rogue scanned the sheet, and sure enough, there were listings for other spellings. "Rose D. Byrne." She considered a moment. "I think I can live with that. But who picked 'Rose'?" She wrinkled her nose. "That's such a girly name."

Remy peered at the paper. "Ah, but, _ma chere_, I t'ink it suits you well. Look, it's not Roisin, 'rose,' it's Roisin Dubh, 'the dark rose.' I t'ink dat suits you perfectly, _non_? Sometimes thorny, sometimes sweet, always alluring…" He smirked at her. "Roisin D. Byrne. Remy _likes_, petite." He was flirting again, making her blush. To hide it, she shuffled through the papers 'til she came to his own identity sheet.  
"Raoul Rossi Gervais," she read. "French, of course. Hmm, meanings. 'Raoul', wolf—does that make me Li'l Red? 'Rossi', red-haired—that's appropriate; 'Gervais', spear carrier—not sure what to make of that one."

"Wait, I go from 'de handsome one' to 'spear carrier'?" Remy said indignantly. "What kind o' name change is that?"

"Hopefully one that will keep you safe," Felix said sharply. "Remember, amusing as these names might be for you both, there are dangerous people after you. I know you're both mutants, but using those powers will put a big neon sign over you for the mobsters. So you can't depend on them to help you. What you can do is learn your identities quickly so that you're safe 'til we round up the men who saw you. Please, use the car ride to study your new profiles."

Remy raised his eyebrows at Rogue, who only rolled her eyes at Felix before handing Remy his paper and studying her own.

Her new identity was Rose D. Byrne, a young woman with her high school diploma—Rogue had just graduated from Bayville high when she had been abducted—who was working as… Her heart sank. Could the job _be_ any more boring? A secretary. She perked up at the next line. A secretary, but in a law office, that could be interesting. According to the profile, her family was originally from the East, but had moved to the South when 'Rose' was young. There, her parents had been tragically killed in an accident, and 'Rose' grew up in orphanages and shelters—no foster homes to track her down with. Her birthday was her own. There was a note that while the identity-making people didn't establish hobbies or anything for the people in the Program, it was suggested that she find some that were dissimilar to the ones in her old life. A copy of various tests they'd done to compile her profile was attached; handwritten suggestions were scrawled beside some of the scores. "Tests suggest you have a strong right brain; that is, musical and artistic ability, which were untapped in your old life," one note read. Another suggested she try learning another language, since 'Rogue' had only known English. A third suggested that she transmute her martial arts training into some sort of dance or self-defense class, so that she remained in good physical training. Dance or self-defense, the note said, along with martial arts, is more usual for a young woman than martial arts alone. It also suggested she use martial arts as a competitive outlet, since Rogue had never used her skills recreationally. "Huh. They're damn thorough," she mused aloud, and peeked under Remy's arm at his own dossier.

Raoul Rossi Gervais was a young man working as an entry-level concierge at a moderately nice hotel in Ulrichsville, Ohio—where they would be living. The background information allowed him to keep his French Quarter, New Orleans place of origin, since there was no way they were going to be able to disguise his accent as anything but Cajun. "Damn," Remy muttered, "Dere's no way dis Cajun gon' get used to bowing and scraping to anyone who walk in dat hotel door." "Raoul"s parents had abandoned him as an infant; the rest of the background information looked similar to Rogue's. The suggestions made to him included one that he learn a trade skill, since his dexterity was, according to the note, astonishingly good. Remy smirked at that, but made no comment, only murmured, "I'll tell you later, _chere_," in response to her questioning look. He nodded toward the front, and Rogue understood that whatever the source of his 'astonishing dexterity' was, he didn't want the federal agent to hear it. There was also a note that he get himself a weapons permit and some sort of handgun for his and Rogue's safety. A young man with a gun in Ohio would attract a lot less notice than a young woman with a gun. There was a set of ID cards, birth certificates, and school diplomas in the envelope. Rogue left them in there for now.

In no time at all, it seemed, they were at the airport. They were rushed through security by Agent Felix. They said their farewells to him at the boarding gate, where he would watch the other passengers board. When they had found their plane seats, Rogue took the envelope back out and removed the banking information. An account had been set up in each of their names. A jingle attracted her attention. Two keys fell out of the envelope.

"I guess these are the keys to our new home," she said quietly, passing one to him as other passengers filed in around them.

"Yeah," Remy replied, equally as softly, tracing the key's contours with one long finger. It occurred to her that Remy, at least, still had a home and family that wanted him; he must be feeling homesick. She leaned her head against his shoulder in mute comfort, and she felt him smile in gratitude.

"I'm sure you must miss your family," she whispered, so that none of the other passengers heard her.

"Oh, _chere_, I do, I do," he assured her. "M' _pere,_ and m' _Tante Mattie,_ and m' _frere_ and his wife, m' crazy cousins… I miss dem all. Haven't seen 'em in a long, long time."

She got the feeling he wasn't talking just about the past four months. "How long?"

"Must be 'bout a year, now," he mused aloud. "Had t' leave t' save m' skin, that and m' _famille's._ I'd just got a call telling me I could come home again safely when dat bastard Trask took me."

The breath left her lungs in a long sigh. "Oh, Remy, I'm sorry. I'm sure your family's been real worried about you, being away so long."

An amused expression crossed his face. "It's okay… I know dey're keeping busy. Real busy."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at his face. "How do you know? You sound certain. They on the news every night or something?" She joked.

His arm tensed beside her, and then he relaxed, grinning. "In a matter o' speaking. I need to talk to you about that, but when we're alone, _hein_?"

She blinked wide, puzzled eyes at him. "Sure, when we get to the apartment."

"De apartment o' Mr. Raoul R. Gervais and Miss Rose D. Byrne," he reminded her. "Wonder what the landlord t'ought of that pair o' names."

"Probably nothing, remember it's a 'safe house'."

"You're too smart, _Rose_. You remember everyt'ing."

"Yeah, don't know why I hang around you, _Raoul,_" she returned quickly. "Could be losing IQ points to you, for all I know."

"Ah, y' know y' love me, _chere_," he returned lightly, but there was something in his red-eyed gaze that made the breath in her throat catch. He broke the spell by turning from her abruptly, saying, "Let's catch the in-flight movie, _hein_? We'll talk later."  
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Since Rogue's abduction from the mission, those five months ago, Professor X had been on Cerebro for hours a day, searching for Rogue's powers. While she had been in Trask's keeping, her powers had popped up every couple of hours. Hellish, to know she was being forced to use her hated powers so much, but some solace in that at least they knew she was alive. After that last botched rescue attempt, she had vanished from Cerebro entirely. If she had been freed that terrible day, surely she would have found her way home by now. Professor X couldn't imagine any reason for her to not have used her powers, at least once, in the past two months. Finally, he and the senior staff had reluctantly, tearfully, concluded that she must have died in the rescue attempt. They decided to dedicate part of the mansion's gardens to her memory, a small secluded corner where roses and tiger lilies grew in profusion in the summertime. In the winter, this small spot only received a light dusting of snow, enough to chill but not enough to chase away. _So like and unlike our Rogue,_ Xavier thought sadly. _She was warm sometimes, cold at others, and we all too often let that cold push us away from getting to know her better, getting to connect with her._ He pulled himself out of his thoughts and continued speaking.

"We are gathered here today to remember one of our own, who has passed from this world into a better one. With this monument to her memory, we will never forget our Rogue. Anyone who would like to say something may do so now," Professor Xavier concluded quietly, sorrow and resignation on his face as he gazed at the marker they'd erected in the garden.

Unsurprisingly, the irrepressible Kitty spoke first. "Rogue, you and I were roommates since you came to be an X-man. Even though your music and obsession with black drove me crazy, I saw sides of you I bet no one else was, like, able to see. You were a good friend to me. You stood up for me when I wanted to be with Lance against the team's wishes. You comforted me when he broke my heart. You had such a deep compassion in you that almost no one saw. I'm privileged to have been allowed past the scary Goth girl into the sweet Southern girl who was one of my closest friends. I'll miss you Rogue." She gulped back tears. "I'm sorry we couldn't get you out, but I'm glad you're free now."

Kurt stepped up next. "_Mein freund_, you understood me like nobody else here. You saw past my goofy exterior to my serious side and didn't make fun of me for it, and didn't call me on it, ever. You stood up for me at school when I was new, because you knew what being excluded felt like yourself. You even let me have the last piece of toast at breakfast though I'd eaten most of it already, because you cared. You might have been sarcastic and moody most of the time, but you _showed_ us you cared. I appreciate that, and I pray every night you are seeing some of that caring given back to you now. I still really can't believe you're gone. Part of me insists you must still be alive. But I know you wouldn't want me to waste my life on an impossible thing. So, goodbye, Rogue." He finished quietly, and murmured a brief prayer in German.

Evan was brief. "Rogue, you were cool, girl. You let me fit into my skater stereotype without a comment; you encouraged me to get back up when I fell. You could really understand when my mutation got out of hand and made me break stuff, or get people mad at me; you were a great shoulder to cry on. I'm going to miss that support, girl. I hope a part of you always stays with us."

Scott and Jean were next. "Rogue," Scott began. "I can't tell you how—_guilty_—I still feel about—leaving you behind" he swallowed, hard, "and I am truly sorry for it. I wish I could explain to you that I thought I was making the right decision—and I panicked a little. Your loss was already so great to the team… You were a natural leader, did you know that? I envied you your poise, your ability to get people to do what you wanted and not have them resent you. I don't think I ever told you how much I valued your presence on the team. I think you really could have been a truly great X-man. I promise, we'll find Trask for you, and take him out so he can't take anyone else from their family."

Jean squeezed his arm supportively. "Rogue, I know you always resented me. I think it would surprise you to know that I never really knew why. You were smart, pretty, talented, and no one messed with you. You could always be yourself, I think; you didn't have to pretend to be anyone you weren't. You never had to pretend to be happy about something you didn't like. You established your own identity where ever you went. And where ever you were in life, there's now a big hole." She choked up. "One that no one can ever, ever fill. We're going to miss you."

Storm's resonant voice was heard next. "Rogue, child, you were a puzzle. You were fiercely independent the same time you were so desperately looking for someplace to belong. I think you were finally finding that place to belong here, with the X-men, and it was all ripped away from you. I can't imagine what that felt like, to be so alone…" The weather-witch wiped tears from her cheeks. "I hope you're surrounded by people you love now, and that you'll never be alone again. We shall miss you always."

Finally, it was Logan's turn. He didn't look at the others, or at the marker. Instead he stared at the ground as though his eyes were rooted there. "Stripes," he said gruffly, "you were a fellow loner. You were independent, and coulda made it on your own if you had to, I bet. You were damn quick to pick up anything I could teach ya, from fighting to fixing an engine. I'm gonna miss our early-morning conversations before Danger Room sessions. I'm gonna miss your bitching about all the rules around here. I'm gonna miss catching you trying to bend—but never really break—those rules, usually for someone else's good. I wish I coulda given you one last hug, even if it _did_ put me in a coma for a while. The scariest news I ever heard in my life was that you'd been captured, and then that we _couldn't get you out. _We were s'posed to help ya, and I think we let you down like everyone else in your life. You never deserved that. You _never_ deserved all that. I—" to everyone's amazement, he got choked up. "I'm gonna miss you, Stripes, every day for the rest of my life, however long that is. You were like the daughter I never had. _I'm gonna miss you,_" he repeated fiercely, then swiftly turned and walked away.

The professor's face openly showed the pain he was feeling. "Yes, Rogue, I believe that sums it up. We all shall miss you deeply. Go in peace, where ever you are." He silently turned his wheelchair around, and left. Storm lifted gracefully into the air and went to go sit in her greenhouse tower. The rest of the team stood together a moment silently, then left one by one.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Review Replies:**

**ROMYNESS,dragon, dana, krista, whome86, enchantedlight**: OK, updating… AND I have part of the next chapter ready, too. (Originally this chapter was 16 pages long, now it's 11 or so.) That should be up in a couple of days hopefully. And I hope this chapter changed you all hating on Scott, he REALLY is just a moron who doesn't happen to love Rogue like we all do… people are people, right? Haha. Don't' worry. Eventually he'll get the screws put to him about abandoning Rogue, moreso than now.

abril4—wow, lots of emotional responses there. Glad to know I'm getting solid reactions:)

**Sweety8587**—wow, why does everyone mistrust the feebies? I've (seriously) had the MiB at my house several times because of some of my brothers' jobs… theyr'e not so terrible… Don't know about CA though, though I think X-treme WAS my fave of the comic series so far… H'm. We'll see.  
**TheRogueAuthor**—uhmmm rollerskate battles? Eeeeyeah, think I'll give THAT movie a miss. Thanks for making me laugh coffee at the computer screen, though :)

**DemonicGambit**—did you do another "read another chapter happy dance"? Think this chap answered some of your questions.


	5. “Five miles meandering with a mazy motio

Xanadu  
by Alara

Chapter 5: "Five miles meandering with a mazy motion"

"Wow, this place isn't half bad," Rogue commented, prowling through the two-floor apartment she and Remy had been given.

"_Non,_ not too bad," Remy agreed. He listed the amenities. "Full kitchen, one and a half baths, two bedrooms, living room, dining room, small laundry, and front hall. I don't think we'll have miles between us, _chere,_ but I do t'ink we'll be comfortable."

Rogue smiled at him. "I think so, too." Then she chuckled ruefully.

"What's so funny?"

"Well, at school, I always thought the girls who moved into apartments with their guy friends were sorta cheap, loose, y'know? And look at me."

"You t'ink livin' wit' Remy makes you cheap?" The question was perfectly neutral in tone.

"No, it's not that, it's just…" she trailed off, not sure how to put it inoffensively.

"You're the type to wait to be married before living with someone, _non_? You were raised with good traditional Southern manners, same's me." Remy shrugged. "Trut' be told, if I didn't have to be living alone wit' you right now, chere, I probably wouldn't be, either. M' _Tante_ Mattie is going to give me enough hell when she learns I was 'living with a woman' as it is, 'til she understands the situation." _Besides, temptation is always on m' shoulder wit' just you and me and no one else around, chere…_

Rogue smiled in relief at his easy understanding. "I know, it sounds dumb and old-fashioned, but when I was a kid I always thought that leaving that stuff 'til after you were married made being married…more special, y'know? Not only does your name change, your _life_ changes, the whole way you live. Then my mutation hit, and there wasn't much point in daydreaming about white picket fences any more." She finished wryly.

"Dose daydreams coming back now, _chere_?" Remy asked curiously, running a finger down her bare arm. "Now dat someone c'n do this?"

Rogue sighed. "Not really. See, Dr. Myers" her voice was bitter "had only got me up to five and a half minutes when that place came crashing down. My resistance to my mutation was getting easier as time went on, and each time it was for longer, but—" she blushed deeply "five and a half minutes isn't much time to get anything going, if you take my meaning."

Remy tapped his lip consideringly. "T'ink I might be able to help you with your control, _chere_," he said. "Maybe." He thought a moment, head cocked to one side. "See, Remy had to learn to control his powers de hard way, too. He kept blowing up anything he'd touch, and eventually his fear that he'd hurt someone got to be so big that he managed to _make_ his powers obey him. Your powers obey you so long as you have de will to keep dem from hurting anybody, dat right?"

"Sorta. Now I can touch someone without thinking about it—in fact, if I want to take someone's memories I have to concentrate on _taking_ before five minutes. After five minutes, though, I have to start concentrating on _not_ absorbing the person."

"Ever t'ink your problem isn't your powers necessarily, but your fear of 'em?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm assuming your first flare-up of powers was traumatic for you, right? Most initial flare-ups are extreme, so far's I've learned." He snorted. "I blew up part of m' _Tante's_ kitchen."

"Well, I put the first and only boy I ever kissed in a coma for a month."

One eyebrow lifted. "To a young teenager, I'd say that qualifies for 'traumatic'. Now, you were forced to absorb lots of people by that _batard _Myers, right?"

"Yes," she said tightly, tensing at the momroy of those months in Trask's keeping.

"Describe the first time you _didn't _absorb someone immediately, what were you thinking or doing?"

"Well, before he touched me, I got my mind as ready as I could to resist it, to not absorb him. But not absorbing him… concentrating that hard… it _hurt_."

"Hmm. Was anything unusual about him?"

"No, just some poor scared runaway."

"How 'bout you…" he said, but it wasn't a question. "Well, we can say your body was in a bad state at that time, your mind probably wasn't at its sharpest either… Makes no sense…" He continued muttering to himself as Rogue thought.

"I was drugged!" She exclaimed.

"What?"

"They drugged me every time before they took me in, remember? I kept biting the aides."

"Dat could explain it, den," Remy said, getting excited.

"Explain what? How?"

"Dat first time you didn't absorb someone, you had drugs running through you which delayed everything, I t'ink your absorption was delayed too. Your subconscious took strength from that one time and built on it—sort of, 'I did so many seconds, next time let's see if I can do so many seconds more'. Make sense?"

"But what does my subconscious have to do with it?"

"I t'ink your mutant power works like mine used to—subconsciously. Your subconscious saw that de first time your powers manifested, they manifested instantly on touch and with lots of power. That made 'instant-and-powerful' your 'default' setting for your mutant power. With me so far?"

"I suppose…"  
"Since you didn't know it _could_ be put to any other 'setting', and you were understandably too scared to try to make it be any other way, it never changed. But Myers _forced_ you to absorb people, to get used to the sensation, and then he slowed that sensation down. That reset your 'default' setting from 'completely on' to 'a little off.' Are you following me?"  
"I think so," Rogue said, hope cautiously blossoming in her. "Is that how you got your powers under control?"

"It is," he nodded. "At first I was blowing up everyt'ing _because_ I was afraid of blowing up everyt'ing. I had no choice but to get it under control, though, because it was control it or blow myself up. So I concentrated on not blowing up one small thing for a while. When I managed it, I calmed down about my power, and calming down made my control even better. Kept doing that 'til I had control. Took an intensive few weeks, but I managed it. I t'ink dat is what has been working for you too—having no choice but to control it. While we're here, let's work on your control, hein? Good way to pass de time when we not be working or cooking or whatever."

A full smile crossed Rogue's face an instant before she launched herself at him in a rib-crushing hug. Her frame, so tiny against his own, shook with pent-up emotion as she murmured, "Thank you thank you thank you," into his chest.

He smiled down at the top of her head as he wrapped his arms around her. "_No problemme, cherie._ Glad to help you in any way I can. Besides, you started fixing your mutation yourself, for dose kids' sakes… I'm only helping you fix it faster."

"No," she smiled up at him, face wet with tears, "You're the one who thinks I _can _do something about my powers and is willing to help me without expecting anything in return. Thank you so much for that."

"Ahh, _chere_," he said, heart twisting in pity that what was a natural act of kindness to him should come as such a gift to her, "It's really not dat big a deal… Come. We'll start tonight, den eat and get some rest; we have our jobs to start tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan, Cajun," Rogue replied. "Let's get started."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy gave Rogue's hand a squeeze as they walked up to her new workplace, Walker, Walker & Straub. She eyed the imposing building with some apprehension. Remy picked up on her nervousness with his empathy and asked, "You want me to walk you in?"

She gave him a strained smile. "No, that's all right. I'll manage."

He looked her over. "Well, you look de part of a secretary, dat's for sure." Indeed, she did; her hair was neatly braided and folded back into a neat chignon, the white peeking from beneath the dark auburn. Her pale skin and grey-green eyes were offset by the richly colored green blouse and black pants she wore. The outfit was completed by sensibly low shoes and a long black peacoat over all. Black leather gloves—against the early winter's chill, not her powers for once—hid her hands from sight, making the skin of her face and throat seem milkier by contrast.

She studied him in turn, teasing, "You didn't clean up half-bad, for a swamp rat." For his first day as "concierge" (read: servitor to the traveling), Remy was wearing a deep blue suit that made his auburn hair seem to have a more brilliant sheen of red. A crisp light blue shirt and dusty gold tie (with tiny spades on it) made him look like a young entrepreneur. His goatee was neatly trimmed, at Rogue's insistence, and his hair was pulled back into a low ponytail.

"Remember, Roisin, I'll be just down de street a ways," he reminded her, "I'll see you at five to walk back home, all right?"

"All right. Have a good day, Raoul," she replied, before turning and entering the building. She yawned, then shook herself. The night before, she had kept jerking awake, her thoughts filled with images the people she didn't allow herself to think about during her waking hours—Dr. Myers, and her former teammates, the X-men.

As she waited for the elevator to take her to the fourth floor, where she'd been told to report, she wondered what the X-men were doing now. Did they miss her? She hadn't quite figured out if _she_ missed _them,_ or if her dreams of them were just her way of letting them go.

Her throat tightened familiarly, and she forced herself to think of something else, lest she begin to cry. Instead, she pondered this new job. She sure hoped it wasn't as boring as "secretary" sounded to her. The doors opened, she took a breath, and stepped fully into her new role as Roisin D. Byrne, secretary.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy's first day as a concierge went better than he had expected. The manager loved how charming he was with the guests. The guests, particularly the women, seemed to like his charm too. Remy smirked to himself. Their husbands and boyfriends and, in one case, father, liked him less. _Still, the womenfolk talked dem into giving 'Raoul' good tips,_ he thought complacently.

It seemed that the job was more than just greeting guests. Eventually, he was told, he'd be responsible for booking theatre reservations and the like for VIP visitors. That would wail until after he learned the area better, though.

While walking back home after his shift was over, he was greatly amused to discover that an enterprising young pickpocket was operating just round the corner from the hotel. _Been away from home for too long,_ Remy thought, as he approached the alleyway. _De t'ieves, dey not recognize a Prince when dey see him. _

He lingered near the opening of the alley, smoking a cigarette unconcernedly, his coat pocket enticingly open. He heard the boy approach quietly behind him. Small, nimble fingers found their way into his pocket. The boy squeaked in surprise, eyes wide, when a strong hand gripped his wrist painfully.

"Don't you know better dan to steal from a t'ief, boy?" Remy asked conversationally.

The boy's eyes widened further, then narrowed suspiciously, all of his 'street tough' attitude showing. "How d' I _know_ you're a thief? You could be a unnercover copper, f'r alls I know. Well, Mr. Copper, I ain't admittin' _nothin',"_ he proclaimed, chin high.

Remy sighed in exasperation, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him further into the alley. "You're a t'ief, boy; you've heard o' de T'ieves' Guild?"

Cautiously, the boy nodded.

"You know of de _famille_ that runs the Guild?"

Another wary nod.

"Do you know how to tell if someone is of dat _famille_?"

Sullenly, as though he were being talked down to, the kid replied, "Yeah. Of course."

"Well, den, here's proof dat I am a t'ief. Hold dis, don't let it hit de ground. I need it for work." He handed the startled boy his suit coat, and quickly unbuttoned his dress shirt to reveal a "wife-beater" style undershirt. He crouched down, turning his left shoulder toward the boy. "Now, boy, you look at m' shoulder, you tell me what you see."

"Tattoo."

"'S right. Look closer—what's it of?"

A sudden intake of breath as the kid recognized the stylized symbol of the Thieves' Guild. "_You're a LeB—_"

"Ssh. Don't say dat name. I'm not goin' by dat right now. M' 'name' " the sarcasm was evident "for now at least, is Raoul Rossi. Got it?" He pulled back on his shirt and coat as he spoke.

"Yessir."

"What's your name?"

"Henry. Henry Walter," he stuttered.

"Henry, eh? Got m'self a _frere,_ he be named Henri. Tell me, Henry, you got y'self a _famille_ someplace?"

"Nope. Orphan."

"Orphan, eh? Den tell me, how you like t' go t' NAwleans sometime?" Remy drawled.

The kid's blue eyes widened. "T' the Seat of the Guild?"

A nod. "_If_ you help me wit' a few t'ings, I'll send you straight to the headquarters. Willing t' help me out?" Henry nodded eagerly. "Good. Den you meet me here on—let's see, it's Monday now, you meet me here on Wednesday, we'll work something out. Here." He shoved some money into the kid's hands. "Take a couple of days off. Don't want no t'ieves around my workplace," he winked.

"No, sir! Y' won't see me 'til Wednesday!" Henry promised, and ran off.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy chuckled to himself, and continued his walk. _Dat'll be a good way to get word home_, he thought to himself. _No one expects a kid to be a messenger._

His good mood slipped a little when he saw Rogue, waiting for him already outside Walker, Walker & Straub. He could sense mild distress from her, although her face was perfectly composed. He casually linked her arm with his as they walked toward the apartment in the early winter sunset. "So, how did your first day go, _chere_?" He finally asked, when she didn't say anything.

She shook herself out of her reverie. "Oh, it was fine. The other girls I'm working with are really nice, and the Misters Walker are nice, too. I didn't meet Mr. Straub, though. I'm glad, though—apparently he would have yelled at me for how I'm dressed."

"Why, _chere_?" Remy asked, surprised. "I was just t'inking how much of a slob dis Cajun must look walking next to such a beautiful lady."

She laughed a little, her mood lifting a bit. "Well, apparently he _really_ is an old-fashioned man, and we—the secretaries, that is—are all supposed to be wearing business-type skirts. The other girls didn't say so outright, but I got the feeling that it's 'no skirt—no job' there."

"Sounds like discrimination t' me, _chere_."

A gusty sigh. "I know, but the Program put me in this job because it's so unlike the old me. And wearing a skirt to work—that's _certainly_ unlike the old me!" She laughed again, then shifted the focus to him. "How did _your_ job go, Mr. Concierge?"

"Ah, it's not too bad, really…" he said. "My coworkers are really nice folks too, and de food we had for lunch was pretty good. And—" he pulled his thick wallet from his pocket. "De customers dey get dere, dey tip pretty damn good."

"The women do, I'll bet." Was he imaging a trace of jealousy in her light tone?

"Sure, once Raoul turns up the ole Cajun charm, dey do. But if I wanted to, I could charm de men, too; just takes more time and effort. Different method."

"Ah." A pause. Then, puzzled, "Are you trying to tell me you swing both ways, Cajun?"

His shout of laughter rang off of the buildings they were walking past. "_Non,_ not at all, _cherie."_ Another burst of laughter. "Been accused of a lot of t'ings in my time, but never dat."

"Oh." She sounded immensely relieved, and a bit embarrassed. "I—didn't mean to imply anything…"

"I know; jus' a funny image for me."

"All right."

They walked in companionable silence 'til they reached their apartment. Remy unlocked the door, listened intently. No one inside. Good. He held the door for Rogue to enter, then walked in himself and locked the door. She murmured something about 'getting out of the damn work clothes,' and headed upstairs. Remy walked to the kitchen, and peered at the contents of the refrigerator. He leaned his head around the stairs. "Roisin, chicken _cacciatore _sound good t' you?"

She walked out of her bedroom, working one of her earrings loose. She looked over the balcony, surprise evident on her face. "You cook?"

He snorted. "O' course. Don't every good man know how?"

She laughed again, like bells ringing. "Chicken _cacciatore_ sounds just fine to me. But you can make whatever you want. I'll be down in a bit." She disappeared back into her room.

Smiling, Remy went back to the kitchen, and began preparing their dinner.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Thanks to you all for reading so far, might ACTUALLY be a few days before the next post is ready. Don't worry, though, I WILL still write.

**Review Replies: **

**Silky black**—as far as the accents go, I really feel that generally they detract from the readability of a story… I have, of course, kept some of Remy's accent, you just canNOT write Remy LeBeau without some accent coming through (Stubborn man…). I've also kept some of Rogue's accent, though hers is more in phrasing and colloquialisms than, say, dropped "ing"s. Plus, my spellcheck goes NUTS with "Winnin' " and "feelin' " and things like that—I'd rather have a better-spelled script than a painstakingly-perfect accented fic (which, believe me, is never 'perfect' for everyone). Besides, a casual toss-in of accent gets the reader to automatically insert the accent as they like to hear it best themselves. (If that makes sense…) But that said, I _did_ try to give a little more accent indications in this chapter. Let me know what you think.

**Eileen Blazer**—thank you, and thank you again… yes, someone else mentioned "Xanadu" the movie in their review… again, I say, "Rollerskate battles?" I like sci-fi as much as—probably more than—the next girl, but… _rollerskate_ battles? Hope you like this next chapter, ch. 5

**Sweety8587**—I LOVE that you cut yourself off in your own review: "That's so…good choice." Not that I'm sure what you meant by it, but still, you cut yourself off. Made me laugh. Actually I have seen phantom, moreover I've performed in it. The name 'Raoul', however, does not come from there, I did several hours' worth of intensive name-meaning searching through French names 'til I found one I thought fit pretty well. And, sssh with claddagh! Don't give away possible plot twists:)

**TheRogueAuthor**—"Xanadu" is a Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem (writ while he was on crack… seriously, they used to give it out as cough medicine) and while alone in the house all coked up, he got this crazy inspiration and wrote this awesome nutso poem "Xanadu." Sadly unfinished, since some jerk came from Birmingham or where-ever and knocked at the door. Coleridge got up, answered the door, and couldn't remember what he was going to write next when he got back to the poem. You've probably heard it, it starts, "In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn / A stately pleasure-dome decree:" Google "Coleridge" and/or "Xanadu," you'll find it.

**Bubbles1612**—WOW, three reviews in a row! Appreciate that. You _jumped_ towards your computer? LOL. Hope you didn't hurt yourself. Enjoy the continuing romyness.

**Roguechere**—I rewrote that one a few times, let me tell ya, glad it turned out.

**DemonicGambit**—haha… well I'm updating _now. _ That soon enough for you?

**enchantedlight**—here you go!

**ishandahalf**—but the cardinal rule of dramatic stories only applies if the people involved _know_ they're in a dramatic story, and with the lives THOSE blokes get up to, this is hardly dramatic. :) and they'll find out…eventually. Quite a way down the line, according to my current plans. LOL I can't tell you how much I laughed when I read, "I heart this." Thanks!

**A.M.bookworm247**—ok, cookie to you for the most detailed, critical review—THANK YOU THANK YOU! …you've read my other work then? _Go raith mheath agus_. (Thank you. A whooole lot.) Hopefully you're not confusing me with some other "alara" penname on there are quite a few, I believe. But anyway—thanks for reading, and don't get into school trouble on my account! god willing, will remain on the internet for the 5 minutes it takes for the teacher to turn her back : )


	6. “And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 6: "And all should cry, Beware! Beware!"

"G'morning, _chere_," Remy greeted Rogue, not looking away as he carefully measured coffee grounds into a filter. "You're up a little later dan usual."

"Didn't sleep so well last night," Rogue replied shortly, digging into the cupboard for some cereal.

Remy glanced up, but didn't tell her he'd heard her wake from nightmares several times. He noticed she was wearing more makeup than usual today. He assumed it was for the dark circles undoubtedly shadowing her eyes.

He turned the coffeemaker on and commented, eyebrow raised, "A _skirt _today?"

She shrugged. "I figured best not to rock the boat this early into the job."

"I s'pose dat's a smart move… Want some coffee?" He offered, as the pot burbled invitingly a moment later.

She wordlessly thrust a hand at him from where she was perched on a stool at the countertop. He poured a cup and passed it to her. "You're too good to me, R—Raoul."

White-toothed grin. "I know."

She made a face at him over her mug as he retrieved his own and sat down beside her.

"Speakin' o' you realizing I be too nice, and how grateful you are for it," he began.

"Yeah?"

"What do you want to do for T'anksgiving? Only a couple weeks away."

She shrugged. "I don't know… traditional turkey and the works, I guess. Maybe rent a movie or something? If you have off of work—I know I do." She added, somewhat defensively, "I could make the turkey. You're not the only one who lives here who knows how to cook."

"Or we could work on de big meal together, and trade off de rest of the time."

"That sounds like a plan," she said, more agreeable with blessed caffeine entering her bloodstream.

"Hmm… Dat makes tonight _your_ turn. What're we having?"

She shot him a look. "Give a girl a minute to think, Cajun!"

He chuckled, draining his cup, and looked at his watch. "Better t'ink fast, we got to be leaving soon for our second days of work."

She looked at her watch too. Her eyes widened. "Shit! It's late! And my hair's not done!" Much to her own surprise, she found she was genuinely upset.

"Looks fine t' me," Remy said, trying to calm her irrational upset. _Guess that's what happens when she spends most of the night tossing and turning instead of getting sleep…what's dat called, transference? She gets upset at little things, not de big ones. _

"What are you talkin' about? It's all over the place!" She jerked the elastic band binding her hair back, causing the white and auburn to virtually explode across her shoulders. Remy caught his breath for a brief second, amazed at the sudden beauty, and watched her try to braid it. Her hair would have none of it, though, seeming to fight her fingers. He shook himself from his reverie, and abruptly turned Rogue on her stool so her back was to him. He took the elastic from her hand. "What—?" she began, startled, when the feel of his hands in her hair distracted her from speech.

Remy was glad she couldn't see his face as his nimble fingers stroked through the thick, silky locks, tugging the twisting, heavy curls into a loose half-bun that drew the front half of her hair into an intricate-looking knot at the base of her neck. The rest of her hair, richly dark, he left to flow behind her shoulders, a V-shaped arrow of hair pointing down her spine. He gave the mass one final caress, letting a curl wrap itself around his fingers, then let the lock fall and gently nudged her shoulder. "Dere. You won't be late for work now."

Her mouth opened and closed in startlement. "I—" she began, then stopped. "Remy, where did you learn how to do that?"

"Got hair of m' own, chere," he said, flicking the end of his own discreet ponytail.

"Yeah, but you didn't _pull_ my hair once. When you're doing someone else's hair, that takes practice—as I know from Kitty trying to do _my _hair. Where did you learn to do that?" She repeated.

He hesitated. "It's kind of part of the reason I had to leave N'Orleans," he said quietly, not quite looking at her. "From a girl I used t'know. Look, I promise I'll explain everyt'ing at dinner tonight; right now, we have to get going or we'll be late."

"All right," she said reluctantly, as she really had no other choice. "Let's get going, then." _C'mon, Rogue! _ She scolded herself. _It's not like you couldn't have guessed he must've had other girlfriends before you… and you're not even his girlfriend right now, you're just the girl he happened to get thrown into the freaking Witness Protection Program with. Get over yourself already!_

They didn't speak during their walk, and parted ways quickly, though surprisingly not angrily. On the contrary, by the time they got to her work, Rogue was starting to be intrigued—what could cause so self-assured a young man to leave his home and family behind? From what he'd mentioned of his family, she could tell it was a committed, caring one.

Remy, for his part, was saying yet another prayer, this time that she didn't leave him once she heard the bizarre, unbelievable tale of his reason for leaving New Orleans. More importantly, he prayed she didn't hate him when she found out who he really was.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Remy arrived back at the law office to pick Rogue up, his empathic sense caught feelings of indignation and upset coming from her. She exited the building when he walked up. There was color high in her cheeks, angry color, and she was breathing carefully, like she was trying not to shout—or trying not to cry. He looked at her questioningly, but she didn't say anything. They walked for several blocks in silence. Quickly, he ran their conversations of the past several days through his head. _Couldn't be anything I said,_ he finally concluded, and ventured a comment.   
"_Cherie_," he said, somewhat lightly. "Maybe dis place not be de best for you to be working, dis is the second day in a row you've been upset after leaving there. De skirt not the right color or something?"

"Oh, the skirt was _fine,"_ she snarled sarcastically, glaring at an inoffensive parking meter, so as not to turn her angry mien on him. She blew out her breath and tugged her coat closer around herself. "I'll tell you what happened when we get home, all right? Just don't ask me right now. I'll only get more upset."

He didn't reply, but merely raised an eyebrow and nodded. Like their morning walk, this one was silent, but it was filled with as-yet-unspoken tension. As though the weather was responding to the mood of the pair, it began to snow in thick, fast, icy flakes. The clouds overhead thickened so much that by the time they reached the apartment's door, it was completely dark outside. The warm lights inside were a welcome contrast as Rogue flipped on every light switch she could get to on the way to the kitchen.

"Breakfast for dinner sound good to you, Raoul?"

"Sure, Roisin. Whatever you feel like making." He watched her gather eggs, pans, butter, bread. "_French_ toast, _cherie_? You trying to charm dis Cajun boy by reminding him of home?" He said, as she continued to assemble ingredients.

She snorted, shooting a half-smile at him over her shoulder as she stirred eggs and milk together. "Nah, just don't feel like going to too much trouble for one Cajun's sake," she teased back.

"Keep up with comments like that, I'll begin to think you're sweet on me."

"Hah hah. Hush, or I'll burn your dinner."

Remy smiled to himself as he set the table—_A table for two,_ he mused. _Been a long time since I've had anyone else to set table for._

In only a few minutes, their dinner was ready. "Sorry it's not much, but I'm just not up to making a lot tonight," Rogue said, as she placed steaming plates on the table.

"It's fine, _cherie_." Remy reassured her, and to her surprise, bowed his head briefly over his plate before beginning to eat. He caught her wide-eyed surprise. "Never seen a man say a grace over his meal before?"

She flushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring. "Just didn't think of you as the godly type. Kurt, maybe, but…"

He grinned at her. "Well, see, I've always had this feeling that his _Tante_ will _know_ if he didn't say grace, even if she not be there. She always seemed to know when we were kids, anyway. And b'sides, figure it's best to give God or Jehovah or whoever you want to call him his due—after all, before Trask, I never was caught. Someone up dere must be smilin' on me."

"And that didn't change after Trask caught you." Her tone was half-sincere, half-skeptical.

He considered as he watched maple syrup drip from his fork. "For a little while, sure, I cursed Him all I could—figured, what's the point of not letting me get caught all dis time, and now by some maniac bent on hurting me, not just jailing me?"

'_Jailing me'? _She thought, startled. _Just what did he do for a living before Trask caught him!_ She didn't have time to ask, though, as Remy continued speaking.

"But then, see, even through the pain, I had a feeling it was important I be there, no matter how much it hurt."

"Was it important?"

His eyes bored straight into hers, fixing her in place for a timeless instant. Quietly, "I met you, got to keep you with me for a time. I'd say that's pretty damn important."

She drew a startled breath in through her nose. Before she could respond to that, he changed the subject.

"Speaking of 'important,' what was so big it had you upset today?"

She sighed. _Hoped he'd forgotten about that…_ "I got to meet the other partner, Mr. Straub, today."

"The one with de issue with de skirts?"

"That's the one. Didn't see too much of him, and I'm glad. He gave me the creeps."

Remy raised an eyebrow. "So what did he do to make you so mad, then?"

"I was waiting to take the elevator down to meet you, and he was there too. I guess he must have seen me leave yesterday, because he asked who 'that young long-haired punk' was who picked me up yesterday. I told him, 'The same guy who's picking me up today.' He kind of snorted, and muttered something about 'these young trampy girls these days.' I asked him to repeat himself, because I 'hadn't quite heard' what he'd said, and he looked straight at me and said, 'You know you heard me. …At least you're properly _dressed_ today.' Then he got off at the next floor. He made me so angry, I wanted to punch someone."

"Sorry about that, _chere_. Don't really know what to tell you."

She blew out her breath. "It's all right. I shouldn't let him get under my skin, I guess, since I'll be working for him for a while. But still—! Ooough!"

He smiled at her indignation. "I'm sure a Southern spitfire like you won't let him get you down for long."

"Nah, guess I shouldn't. Speaking of the South…" She began clearing the dishes away.

"Yeah?"

"You promised this morning to tell me about why you left New Orleans." She paused for a moment, then bit her lip. "If you don't want to tell me, it's okay…"

"Nah, you can hear the whole strange story. Can't promise you'll believe all of it. And I can't promise you'll even _like_ me after you hear all of it. But I did promise to tell you."

"No, R—Raoul, it's all right—"

"You've got the right to know, seeing as how we're sorta stuck with each other for a while at least. And I ought to tell you now, so if you decide to leave, the Feds will let you. But this doesn't leave the apartment, all right?"

"All right…" _What the heck! How bad is this, my GOD he's serious…_

"Let's go sit down for this strange tale, I think it'll take a while." He led the way into the living room, where they sat on the couch. He took a breath. "'Member when we were escaping Trask's base?"

"Like I could forget."

"Remember when I introduced m'self to you?"

"Yeah, you said, well—'Remy LeBeau'—" she whispered, conscious of the FBI's warnings not to say their real names too often—"'thief and charmer, at your service.'" He gave her an eloquent look; her eyes widened in comprehension. "You really _are_ a thief?"

He looked away. "In fact, I'm a prince of the Thieves' Guild, based in N'Orleans." He glanced at her expression, to see how she took the news.

She blinked several times, slowly. "Well, that certainly explains more than a few things." She remembered his stealthiness during their escape, as well as the feebies' comments on Remy's physiological workup.

"You're not mad? Or horrified at m' lawless ways? 'Cause I'll tell you now, _chere_, I love the life and _de famille,_ and both require I do the work."

She gave him an exasperated, 'now, you should really know better than that' look. "Remy. I am looking at the one person I know at all well who I have ever seen give thanks to God for his food. I am _so_ not going to get up on a high horse about your…inherited profession."

"We do only steal from the very rich, and never _everything_, only a few valuable items." He said almost pleadingly, not quite trusting her blasé acceptance of his profession.

"Well, of course." At his look she continued, "If you've never been caught, then you must have been getting out with a minimum of loot. And you don't strike me as the greedy type. Although," and she smiled slyly, "I'll bet your kinetically charged cards come in handy when you have to make a getaway, huh?"

_She's thinking like a t'ief already… Maybe she's been hanging around me too long. But won't de famille love her! If she doesn't leave me…  
_"That's not all, _chere_." He swallowed dryly. "I'm going to need you to not interrupt me, here. Never told anyone this part of the story before, and I don't know if I can start again if I'm stopped." She nodded. "See, there's more than one Guild in N'Orleans. Quite a few, actually. And the two most powerful are the T'ieves' Guild and the Assassins' Guild. Now, these two ladies been fighting for a real long time. Assassins would kill T'ieves, T'ieves would kill Assassins, and both would try to one-up the other. Finally the leader of the Assassins' Guild, Maruis Bordreaux, and the leader of the T'ieves' Guild, _mon pere_ Jean-Luc, well, they got together and decided that enough was enough. They settled a peace agreement, and to seal that agreement they arranged a marriage between Bordreaux's popular daughter Belladonna, and Jean-Luc's ladies'-man son. Me."

Rogue drew in a deep breath through her nose, but didn't say anything, sensing that he wasn't finished speaking just yet. _He's married. Well, Rogue, it's not like you two were going out or anything, right? You shouldn't be upset. You have no right to be upset. _

_But I'm upset!_

"Everyone was happy with the arrangements—more or less, we thought. Two most popular young people in de area, getting married… storybook tale, right? But then, on our wedding day, just after the "I do"s but before we even got a symbolic kiss, Belle's brother Julien called me out. Seems he didn't want his precious sister marrying a filthy t'ief, even if I was a prince. I had no choice but to leave, or start up de feud again. So I left N'Orleans that night. Truth be told, I think Belle was just as relieved. I'd had a lot more girlfriends than she'd had boyfriends—one of de girls I went out wit' for a while, she insisted I learn to braid her hair. Said it'd be useful someday. Anyway. As I said, I think Bella was just as happy I left. Our wedding day was only the second time we'd met, and she was just 17 while I was 19 going on 20. After most of a year living on my own, Trask caught me, and the rest you know."

His tone had a note of finality to it and after a moment of thought, Rogue ventured to speak. To Remy's surprise, she didn't recriminate him for not telling her sooner, or for leading her on, or anything he was expecting.

"Didn't you say you were on your way back home when Trask caught you?"

"I did."

"So if you couldn't go back because it would start the feud again, why were you going back?" Hope rose, unbidden, within her.

"Well, see, just before dat _bâtard _snatched me, I got a telephone call from _mon frere_. It seems that Bella has gone sweet on someone since I've been gone, and is willing to sign annulment papers as soon as I get back."

"An—an annulment?" Rogue repeated.

"Says the marriage never really existed in the first place. Should be easy to get, since the marriage was never consummated. Dat's by both church and state law, too. Julien doesn't want to kill me anymore, either, since I won't be sleeping with his sister now."

"Oh." Rogue considered that for a moment, then her features softened. "Remy, your family! They can't have heard from you in nearly five months! They must think you're dead!"

"Well, dat's a problem I've already addressed, see, I met this young aspiring pickpocket yesterday…" He related the story of young Henry to her. She rolled her eyes at his method of luring the kid into the alleyway, and her eyes lit with interest when he mentioned the tattoo.

"You have a tattoo? Can I see it?"

"Sure." Casually, he shrugged off his suit coat, and unbuttoned only the top couple of buttons on his button-down shirt before pulling the button-down and undershirt over his head. It was Rogue's turn to catch her breath as expanses of toned muscle were unveiled to her eyes. He turned his shoulder to her.

She examined the stylized tattoo closely, before venturing a finger to trace its lines. The tattoo ran from the smooth top of his shoulder nearly to the bottom of his shoulder blade. When her fingers tapped the hollow that marked the bone's edge, Remy jumped. Experimentally, she ran her fingers gently across the spot again. He twitched.

A tease was in her voice as she asked in her best Southern drawl, "Why, Mr. Remy LeBeau, are you ticklish?"

"_Non_. Not at all. Nope." Came the strangled response, as though he were holding in laughter.

She considered for a second, and dug her fingers into the spot. Remy nearly levitated from the couch, and spun, to face off her attack. "I think you _are _ticklish, Cajun!" She exclaimed, and proceeded to chase him around the room. The chase only ended when they inadvertently flipped over an end table, which threw a clock to the floor. Remy glanced at the time as he replace the clock. "Time for bed, _chere_, we've got work in the morning." He sighed.

"Guess you're right." She began to head for the stairs, and was startled when Remy suddenly hugged her, burying his nose in the curls atop her head. "Thank you, _chere_, thank you so much for believing me and not leaving this Cajun in the dust. Dunno if he could take dat right now."

She smiled into his chest. "It's all right, Cajun… Got it pretty nice here, don't think I want to leave anytime soon." She felt his smile before he released her, and headed upstairs.   
"_Bonne nuit, chere." _ He said softly, before going to get ready for bed.   
She smiled, and did the same.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy awoke to the sound of a woman's cry. It took no more than a second to identify the voice: Rogue.

He rolled out of bed, and walked down the dark hall to her door. He tapped on it. "_Chere_?" The only response was a repeat of the sound. That settled it; he opened the door.

Rogue was perspiring, and her blankets were tangled and on the floor, as though she'd been kicking them in her sleep. She slept fitfully, her head moving from side to side, her hair tangling against the pillowcase. _Another of her nightmares. We're away from Trask and Meyers for two months and they're _still_ torturing her!_

"Sssh." He soothed, as he sat on the edge of the bed. He projected calm and safety at her. "It's all right, _chere_. They're not here. It's just you and Remy now. Sssh. Just a dream you're having. No reason to be afraid. Sssh…." He stroked the damp hair from her eyes. Her sleep calmed somewhat, but not entirely. He grabbed the fallen blankets and gently placed them over her. It didn't seem to help much. Softly, he began to sing a lullaby his _Tante_ had sung to him and his cousins when they were kids. Her sleep calmed entirely, and her face smoothed into normal sleep. After a time, her eyes heavily opened.

"Remy…?"

"Sssh, _p'tite,_ just a dream."   
"Don't leave me here alone…" She muttered, and her eyes closed. He looked at her for a moment, then replied, just as softly, "Wasn't planning on it, _chere_." He retrieved blankets from his room and dragged a chair close to her bed, wrapped the blankets around himself, and settled in to sleep close by should she waken again_. Such a belle ange worth a bad night's sleep, no?_ He thought to himself. _Just hope she remembers in the morning that she asked me to stay. _

Gradually, he, too, fell asleep, and quiet descended on the apartment once more.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Review Responses: **

**Riderazzo**—Thanks for your comments! Could you tell me why chapters 1-3 were particularly good, so I might be able to fix up the others? And Remy's WP name meaning is in there—Rogue reads it. 

**A.M.bookworm247**—Yay, you've kept with it! Thanks! Sorry about my confusion; you'd referred to _stories_, plural. Was afraid you'd gotten me mixed up with someone else, your praise was so effusive. And _don't skip homework_ to read fanfic! The fic will still be there! C'mon, I am _ not_ contributing to the delinquency of anyone here. : ) And this story isn't as weird as… what, if I may ask? And I try to only use clichés when I must; sometimes they _do_ work well. Thanks for your comments, keep reading!

**coldfiredragon**—Hope you like this chapter. Lol I must have hit on a stroke of genius or something—everyone's loving the feebeis and the witness protection program. Yay! **ishandahalf**—sorry the quick updates stopped, comp ate a chapter (damned thing!) and I had my wisdom teeth removed to-day… sorta messes with the creative thing, being unconscious.

**Allimba**—grazie, please keep reading!

**abril4**—Aah, the New Boss angle, what _will_ I do with him: )

**Lady Godiva**—Again with the slacking from studies—people, get your work done first, I guarantee you'll get your work done before I post again! Really! C'mon: ) Thanks for the enthusiasm. 

**DemonicGambit**—No killing sprees? Good. Hopefully you got some chocolate for that withdrawal, but here you go! 

**enchantedlight**—Thanks for reading! 

**heartsyhawk**—Wow, more new people reading. I feel so special…. Does this count as "soonish"?

**Eileen B**—Aaah my faithful one. Hello to you too! Soon as I get back o campus to the servers there, I'll send out my beta to you. Hopefully you liked these parts too!

**Sweety8587**—get rid of the goatee? _Por quois? _Believe me, he needs the goatee...for now. Oh, and "Mazy" means "like a maze". Maze-y. a winding, twisting path. Got it? 


	7. “Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding

Note from 4.9.05: I've added an extensive Prologue to the beginning of the first chapter, so go read that now! Reviews can be submitted via e-mail, if you wish. I've also rewritten parts of the first and second chapters.

—Alara

5.1.05: Ahhhhhhh Blessed be God who made me, the 33 page research thesis paper (on Irish history through ballad and song) is FINISHED! …except for final editing, then hopefully editing for publication. (If anyone wants to read that sucker, let me know, hahaha.) And after to-morrow, opera is also finished… YAY no more 6+ hours of rehearsal a day!

All standard disclaimers apply, with the addition of this: unless I note it as such, any lyric/poem/other form of artistic endeavour quoted in this fic are _not _mine. For instance, "When I Think About Angels" by Jamie O'Neal (who should SO go brunette, not blond-ER) quoted in this chapter is NOT MINE.

Ooookay, on with the chapter!

.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu  
by Alara

Chapter 7: "Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail/ Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:"

Rogue stretched luxuriantly, breathing in the pale golden air that filled the room; her window faced Eastward, toward the dawning light. _I usually pull the curtain,_ she thought, puzzled; she _hated_ getting up early, normally. _Didn't I shut that last night? _ She sighed to herself, realizing that her puzzling over such a small thing had got her brain moving. She was far too awake now to get back to sleep. _Well, at least I slept well last night… first time in a long time that's happened… Guess I'd better get up._ Suiting action to thought, she opened her eyes, allowing them to trace the streams of light tracing from the window across the ceiling, down the wall, across the carpet, over Remy in the chair—

_Over Remy in the chair? _She simply stared in puzzled astonishment for a moment. Now she was really awake. _Wait... I thought that was a dream…_ A _nice_ dream for once, of dark warmth and soothing words and a gentle touch… She felt badly, looking at the sleeping Cajun. Obviously, her restless sleep had woken him, and been bad enough that he had stayed by her side all night in case she woke again. She gazed at him fondly, an unaccustomed gentle smile gracing her features. On a sudden impulse, she quietly crept out of her bed and tiptoed out of the room. She made her way downstairs, and there dug through the refrigerator until she had the makings of a simple but spicy breakfast ready. Eggs, pepperjack cheese, bacon, bagels, milk, coffee, and, of course, grits, were lined up neatly on the countertop. She greased a pan with butter—_real­ _butter, thank you, none of this low-taste stuff—and scrambled some eggs together with the milk, diced the cheese to add to the omelet, put the bacon on to fry, started stirring the grits, and put the bagels under the broiler to toast.

_Sure hope that Cajun likes his breakfasts larger than a bowl of cereal,_ she thought as she stirred the eggs. While they were thickening, she flicked the countertop radio on, keeping the sound low. It happened to be on a country station—it turned out Remy had as varied tastes in music as she had—and in a moment, the commercial break ended and music came back on. It was a song Rogue had heard before, a happy, 'morning' type of song; she began to sing along softly.

_Why does the color of my coffee match your eyes—_

Right. She'd forgotten to turn on the coffeemaker. _Thank you, WJZ 104.9._

_Why do I see you when a stranger passes by?  
I swear I hear you on the whisper of the wind  
I feel you when the sun is dancin' on my skin—_

Rogue had to smile, thinking of her lovely wake-up a half hour ago.

_And when it's raining  
You won't find me complainin' cause  
When I think about rain  
I think about singing  
When I think about singing  
It's a heavenly tune  
When I think about heaven then  
I think about angels  
When I think about angels   
I think about you _

_Remy sure was my guardian angel last night…_Rogue thought as she continued making breakfast. She glanced at the clock: 7:23. _Remy'd better get up soon, or he's gonna be late for work…_ She shrugged. _I'll get him after this song is over._ She continued to sing as she cooked.

_The taste of sugar sure reminds me of your kiss  
I like the way that they  
Both linger on my lips  
Kisses remind me of a field of butterflies  
Must be the way my heart is fluttering inside   
Beautiful distraction  
You make every thought a chain reaction  
When I think about rain  
I think about singing  
When I think about singing  
It's a heavenly tune  
When I think about heaven then  
I think about angels  
When I think about angels  
I think about you _

The timing was perfect. As the song ended, the eggs were _just _reaching that perfect fluffy stage to add the cheese, and the bagels were _just _cooling from their toast in the broiler. The bacon was that perfect balance between crispy sweet fat and slightly-burnt meat, and the coffee was just burbling out the last of the brew.

_Anywhere I go  
Anything I do  
Everything around me baby  
Makes me think of you…  
When I think about rain  
I think about singing  
When I think about singing  
It's a heavenly tune  
When I think about heaven then  
I think about angels  
When I think about angels  
I think about you _

Rogue spun, startled, as appreciative applause sounded softly from the staircase. Remy stood there, auburn hair disheveled and a grin on his face. _"Tres beau vocalise, chere."_ He said, and inhaled through his nose deeply. "Is all dat food for you, or will you share with dis poor Cajun?"

She laughed through her blushing at his praise. "Sit down, I'll bring it over."

He mock-saluted and sat at the table bolt upright, an expectant look on his face. Rogue laughed again, and assembled the plates.

_Aaah, what a way to start the morning, _un ange _laughing merrily in the kitchen._ Remy thought to himself. He had been frightened for a moment when he woke to see Rogue gone, but then he had heard her voice—higher and purer than he'd have thought—singing from the kitchen. And lo, to his surprise, a good home-cooked breakfast was waiting for him when he blearily made his way down the stairs, Rogue looking comfortable and well-rested in her loose sweatpants and baggy oversized T-shirt.

She set the plates on the table, and when he bowed his head over his, she asked him shyly, "Would you mind saying grace aloud?"

He blinked at her, surprised, but did so nonetheless. As they began to eat, he commented, "I really wasn't kidding when I said your singing was beautiful, you know."

Red saturated her cheeks. "I'm not anything special," she said, and quickly took a bite of food to avoid speaking any more.

He pointed his fork at her. "You, chere, have a beautiful voice. And you should do something with it. In fact—" he reached over to the counter, where the file folder of Witness Protection dossiers was kept, and flipped it open. "Yes, there's a specific note here, 'Tests suggest you have a strong right brain … musical and artistic ability … untapped in your old life.'" He gave her a triumphant look. "For once, the feds are on _my_ side."

She made a face at him. "I don't know… singing, it's so… I'll think about it. It sounds like something Kitty or Jean would do."

Remy grimaced. "From what you say, dat Jeannie probably wouldn't have a very nice voice," He pointed out. "And besides, the whole point of being here is to be as unlike our 'normal' selves as possible. Just think about it, all right? Maybe take a lesson or two, see how you like it."

"All right," Rogue hesitantly agreed. "But I don't promise to like it," she said.

He chuckled at her reluctance, and glanced at the clock. "_Merde,_ it's quarter 'til eight. We'd better get moving or we'll be late."

They finished breakfast quickly, and even more quickly got ready for work. When they got to Rogue's workplace, she surprised him by giving him a quick hug. "Thank you for last night," was all she said before hurrying in the door.

Remy walked the rest of the way in a bemused haze.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

On his way home from work, he kept his appointment with the young pickpocket Henry Walter. On impulse, he asked the kid to come home and eat dinner; best to get to know how trustworthy he was before sending him across the country as a courier. They stopped by the attorneys' office, where Rogue bounded out to meet them, a smile on her face.

"Good day at work, chere?" Remy asked dryly.

"Straub wasn't in today, and won't be until after Thanksgiving!" Rogue crowed. "He's taken an early vacation."

"Dat's great news, chere! Here, I'd like to introduce you to that young Mr. Walter I mentioned to you last night." He ushered the kid forward, who looked like he'd rather run for an alleyway.

"Pleased t'meetcha," he mumbled, not looking at her.

Remy cuffed him over the head. "Dat any way to speak to a lady, boy?" he asked sharply, and the boy's spine straightened at the reminder of who he was dealing with.

Politely he extended a hand. "I'm Henry Walter. I'm so glad Rem—_Raoul_ found me, and that I get to meet someone as pretty as you. Are you his girlfriend?" He asked, with all the naïveté of youth.

Rogue's cheeks colored prettily. "I'm Roisin… and… uh…" she looked appealingly to Remy. "Well, actually I'm not sure what you'd call Raoul and me. It's…an unusual situation. But it's nice to meet you anyway. Would you like to have dinner with us?"

His eyes lit up at the mention of food, like any growing 12-year old who hadn't had a good meal in a while. "Sure!" he said eagerly, and then amended, with a wary glance at Remy, "Uh—I mean… That would be really really nice."

Remy laughed to himself, but didn't tell the kid not to overdo it. "well, then, that settles it. Dinner it is."

After they'd eaten dinner, Remy sat Henry down at the table and began giving him instructions, drilling him on passwords he'd need to get to New Orleans safely. As he quizzed the kid, he draughted a coded letter of introduction. "Give this to the first T'ief you see in de Big Easy," he told him, and gave him money enough to make the trip. "I don't want you stealing on your way down, too easy you'd get caught," he said. Next he wrote a letter of explanation about where he'd been all this time in an even more complex code, one known only to the LeBeaus. This he also gave to Henry, with specific instructions that if he were caught, he was to destroy this letter first, and nevermind about the introductory one. Rogue watched all of this in fascination, but made no comment.

They walked him to the train station where Remy charmed the conductor into making sure that Henry made it into Louisiana all right, and moreover ensured that the kid would get an escort to the bus to New Orleans, where, Remy assured the man, the boy's uncle would meet him. Henry wisely said nothing about all of this, but looked as excited as any kid would be at being allowed to travel so far alone. He waved excitedly from the train as it pulled out, and the pair of Southerners walked home.

Rogue sighed quietly. Remy glanced at her. "Something wrong, chere?"

"Not really. Seeing Henry go off to a new home made me… homesick, I guess."

"Homesick? For dose _batards _who left you? Why?" Remy asked indignantly, telling himself that he was _not_ jealous.

"Well, they might not have been the most _loyal_ bunch, but Kurt and Kitty were always really nice, willing to stand up for me against the others, even after I completely lost control. And because I lost control so badly, I really can't blame the others for dropping me when they had the chance. I almost killed them all."

"Yeah, but you said those other two forgave you."

"Well, like I've said before, Kurt is more the religious type than anyone on the team. He's more forgiving. And Kitty is like that girl from _Clueless _sometimes, she's so nice and cheery. They're kinda different from the rest."

"It's all right to feel homesick, y'know. I'm jealous of that kid right now, on the train to the city I love best. He's gonna get to see the _famille_ I was supposed to be with these five months past."

"I know; I'm jealous of _you_ for that."

"Hm?"

"You have a family to go home to."

He was silent a moment, then offered softly, "Remy's willing to share… plenty to go around." Then, in a more normal tone of voice, "I know! Y' can take my annoying cousins Etienne and Theo! Y' _need_ two people to handle dose two." Rogue giggled softly at his offer.

"So why can't I share the _good_ part of your family?"

"Oh, I dunno if you'll be able to handle the rest after Etienne. He'd tire out a kindergarten class on Pixie Stix. Really. I've seen it happen. Etienne volunteering at a grade school—" Remy shuddered. "Not a good idea—I don't t'ink those kids slept for a week after he got them wound up so far!"

Rogue laughed then, her despondent mood lifting in spite of herself. "all right, Cajun, if we ever get the chance to meet them, I'll share Etienne and Theo with you."

"T'ank God!" Remy shouted at the stars. "You've answered my prayers—a defense against those two! How are you with pranks…?" He asked, a deviously.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"He's _the enemy_, Half-Pint! You can't just invite him in for friggin' _tea_! There are _rules_ about this sort of thing for a _reason!" _Logan roared, his face red with anger.

"Like, this is _totally_ unfair! Kurt has Amanda over all the time—"

"But Amanda is not a member of the Brotherhood! It is a completely different situation!"

"But Lance is different—"

The shouting match had been continuing for some time, and was taking place right in the foyer, where no-one could possibly miss it. Evan and Kurt nervously peered around the doorframe of the kitchen.

"Man," Evan muttered. "Logan is _pissed._"

"_Ja,"_ Kurt agreed. "But at least he's getting back to his old self—ever since we 'buried' Rogue, he's been no fun."

"True dat, man."

A scuff behind them made both teens turn, to see a wrung-out Scott shuffling in the opposite doorway. "What's going on?"

"Oh, Logan's having a royal hissy fit over Kitty dating Lance," Evan said, walking over to the ex-team leader. "You OK, man?"

Scott smiled wanly. "Yeah." He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I just had a rough therapy session, that's all."

The other two nodded slowly, and exchanged looks. Scott had had a nervous breakdown over his guilt feelings about Rogue, which apparently had tied into his already unresolved guilt over surviving his brother's and parents' deaths: the strain had driven him into an emotional collapse, a state none of the X-men had ever seen the unflappable leader in before. Professor Xavier had hired a psychologist to come live at the mansion to help the teen—and any others in the house—with dealing with Rogue's death, which had affected them all far more profoundly than they had expected.

All, that is, except for Jean, who had been promoted to team leader with Scott's absence. They thought Scott was awful for a team leader—he was _wonderful_ compared to Jean, though. Instead of dictating orders, like Scott, Jean wanted to sit down and discuss options—even in the middle of a fight! And God forbid she ever pick up on inter-team tension; she'd take the two in question aside and make them 'talk it out,' no matter how inane or minor the issue.

"So…" Kurt said. "Any chance you'll be reinstated soon?"

Wryly Scott shook his head. "No way. Apparently I've made a breakthrough that I have to work with… Didn't you have Danger Room soon?"

Kurt and Evan sighed as the remembered that they _were_ due for an all-team Danger Room session in about ten minutes, run by Jean. "Yeah, we do, thanks for the reminder," was all Evan could say, and they left the room as quickly as possible, not wishing to look at the shaken leader any more.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

After it was over, Jean lectured them on all the faults and failings she'd seen them exhibit this particular session, her inner perfectionist coming to the fore. As she yammered on, Evan leaned toward Kitty and muttered, "I never realized before how much better Rogue was at field leading… When she told us what we did wrong, she wasn't on her high horse about it, ever."

"Yeah," Kitty murmured back, rolling her eyes at Jean.

"Ex_cuse_ me," Jean said loudly. "Was there something you wanted to say, Evan?"

The skateboarder lost his temper. "Yeah," he said. "I was just telling Kitty how I thought even isolationist _Rogue_ was a better team leader than you are, Miss Perfect."

Eyebrows shot up around the room. _Holy crap, he actually said it._

Jean gasped for a second, then snapped, "Well, Evan, unless you've forgotten, Rogue wasn't averse to using all of our powers against us! At least _I've _never gone totally berserk with everyone's powers and tried to kill the team! Now," her tone turned patronizing "I know you miss Rogue, we all do. But can't you see that at least she can't be used against the X-men now? That was always a concern with her, with her 'isolationism' and all. We never knew what she was up to. In a way, it's kind of a relief to not have that question of her loyalty any more. After all, she _was_ with the Brotherhood before she was with us, even if it was only for a short while. They were her first choice."

"That's bull, and you know it, Grey!" Evan shouted, and stormed out of the room. Jean cast a superior look around the room.

"Tsk, tsk. Really. If you can't handle the truth…" She shrugged, ignoring the mutinous looks around the room. "Well, let's call it a day. Remember, double Danger Room on Saturday."

Many rolled eyes and muttered "Can you _believe_ her?"s accompanied the team out of the Danger Room. Kitty stopped Kurt.

"I, like, think that Professor Xavier really needs to know Jean's badmouthing Rogue, don't you?"

"_Ja._ Her anger and bitterness make no sense, considering how upset she was at first that Rogue got left behind."

They quickly made their way to the Professor's office, where he listened, an inscrutable look on his face.

"So, in summation, the situation is this: Rogue was feeling depressed and lonely _before_ she was kidnapped? And she was actually avoiding coming home the day she disappeared?"

"Yes."

"And now, months after the fact, Jean is hostile toward Rogue?"

"Well, sir," Kurt spoke up, "I think she always was jealous of Rogue, but kept her thoughts to herself."

"Hmm. Interesting. You may leave now, but rest assured I will deal with the matter."

The teens left Charles Xavier to ponder his thoughts. _Could it be possible Jean inadvertently projected her dislike of Rogue to her? Or perhaps Rogue picked up on the thoughts whenever she absorbed Jean? And Jean might be acting out now out of guilt—much like Scott._ He sighed; it seemed he'd be out _another_ team leader, now.

With a thought he summoned Dr. Banks—the psychologist—and Jean to his office. Fortunately, Banks arrived first, and he was able to posit his theory to her. She listened, and nodded when he finished. "Given what I know about Jean's mental makeup, that would make complete sense. Be prepared for tears today, however, if you plan to suggest this idea of yours to her."

"I am ready, and I do so plan," he said, and stopped talking as Jean came in through the door.

"You wanted to see me, Professor?"

"Yes, Jean, I did. Please, sit down."

It only took a few minutes of questioning to get a reaction from the redhead. "You think _I'm_ responsible for Rogue's dying?" She asked indignantly, scoffing.. "Scott's the one who decided to leave her there, and I was angry with him for doing that, remember?"

"Yes, Jean, but apparently Rogue was apparently avoiding coming home that night because she felt alone and unwanted here." Xavier continued as gently as he could, "That is _not _all your fault, but... From certain information I have, I think at least part of that may have been from your thoughts about her. Had Rogue absorbed you recently, or did you drop your mental shields around her before her abduction?"

Jean's brow furrowed as she considered the Professor's words, and sure enough, tears began to well up as she realized he might be correct. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "Was my stupid anger at Rogue why she got killed? Oh God." She gasped in a panicky breath. "And all of those mean things I said today… about it almost being better… Oh my God… I'm such a horrible person!" She began babbling, and Dr. Banks swiftly took charge of her, herding her out the door toward her own office.

Xavier sighed. It was great that Jean was finally going to be able to deal with all of the issues surrounding Rogue's death, but who would be team leader now? _First Scott, now Jean... perhaps Kurt? _He winced at the thought. _Perhaps not._ _This will take quite some thought... Ah, Rogue, if you had only survived, if we only could have rescued you... _The regal head bowed, and one of the world's most powerful mutants gave in to his own grief and guilt—if only for the moment.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I just realized... I have a heck of a lot of cooking in this fic. Huh. Weird.

**Review Responses:**

**Crazed Fuzzle—**Yay! I'm keeping characters 'in character' (more or less. Ha.) And don't worry, as I hope the previous chapter showed, the loss is hitting them all much harder than was initially apparent. Hope you enjoyed it!  
**Guarded Secrets—**I think this was your first review on this story. No fear—I ­hate not-finishing stories.  
**GambitsFan—**Keeping goin'. :)  
**Ladyflame13—**Well now Rogue's sung, too, tho' not _directly_ at Remy… and 'petite' means 'little' or 'little one'. 'chere' is 'dear'.  
**bored247—**ok, updated, UPDATED! Thanks for reading!  
**canuck—**ditto above  
**lonewolf44—**three words for your two: Here you go!  
**Randirogue—**this getting deep enough for you?**  
fallen-anqel—**aah, more Romy to come, I promise.  
**Heather—**Hmm… did I already reply to you question of "why not dye her hair?" Well, if not, it's because the dye wouldn't take. Yeeeah. I am the Author, hear me roar!  
**kyo-kitty—**sorry to _keep_ you waiting, hope the chap made up for it.  
**DemonicGambit—**I snorted coffee out my nose when I read, "her boss is a butt-turkey". Hahaha.  
**Elf16—**Why, what a lovely, lovely review you've written me! Do please keep reading!  
**Riderazzo—**More action later, I PROMISE. But I don't want this fic to turn into the equivalent of a VanDamme movie.**  
GFired—**yay! Another 'characters are good' comment. LOVE those comments! **abril4—**hahaha. The guy really hasn't DONE anything, and everyone hates the boss. **  
jade—**sorry for keeping you waiting for update so long!  
**Allimba—**thanks for your comments, please keep reading!  
**enchantedlight—**sorry it wasn't exactly 'soon…'  
**Minnaloushe—**woot. Another fan of the WP twist… and saoirse! To the fellow Irish-American (tho I'm like 95). Please keep reading!  
**ishandahalf—**happiness! An ishy review! And 'uber wench' love that. Hahaha. And I'm sorry, my bunny went comatose because of so much crack, had to wait for him to revive to time out the update. : )  
**Eileen Blazer—**did you really review? Or only _think_ you did. Haha. Sorry for the looooong emailing, etc., hiatus. Class, you know. Oo. You want to cuddle my Remy? I want to cuddle _your_ remy! And yay for the pickup on Bella Isn't Getting In The Way For Once, At Least Not Now. :) Yeah. And I figured, Remy needs a tat.  
**Lady Godiva—**aww. I hope you are well and truly over your flu by NOW. If not, check its not mono! Anyway. The 'hey we both like each other' is coming, but in pieces. And if you're not allowed to put off school work to read fics, don't make yourself ILL to read fics! Good god: )  
**A.M.bookworm247—**OK. Was that sappiness kills in a GOOD way or a BAD way? And oo, extravagance, woot me!  
**Sweety8587—**aaah yess, everyone loves a half-naked Remy… hmm… ahem . Uhm, I mean, read and review! eeeyeah.  
**Roguechere—**you can't have a Remy, he's an exclusive edition. Mnyaaah.  
**Ladyflame13—**please keep reading!  
**Cat2fat900—**sorry to fake you out… but here's the REAL chap. 7. hope you don't hate poor Scotto so much now, he's going through a rough time.   
**Iwant2goFAST—**but how fast is 'fast': ) Thanks for reading. And put me on Author Alert, they email you when I update (like now). It's easier than taking up the site's bandwidth checking.  
**PhantomPunkEvo—**Awww. Best? Eee. happiness. And rawkiness! Yay!  
**Gina—**wow, chill, the boss will get what's coming to him eventually!  
**A.M.bookworm247—the reprise—**thanks for your review on the Prologue. Helps a LOT, seriously!  
**DaughterofDeath—**new chapter added!  
**Cat2fat900—**'teariful,' eh? That's a neologism…!  
**Sweety8587—**no violence on the Author please, that kinda slows updates further! Thanks for your Prologue review. 'Sent to Coventry'? Huh?  
**baby12—**not 'really soon,' but an update nonetheless!  
**ishandahalf—**again! Sorry for the fakeout. Glad you liked the Prologue tho! Hahaha. And of course you were referring to the first (non-sucky) Matrix, right? Wait, what am I talking about… they "didn't make" other Matrix movies…

**enchantedlight—**thanks for the rewrite review… please keep reviewing!


	8. “And 'mid these dancing rocks at once an...

So, wow. Maybe I should wait longer between updates… Chapter 7 returned some of the _longest_ reviews I've ever received! Wow… well thanks to you all for continuing to read, and without further ado, I give you…

The Chapter!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu  
by Alara

Chapter 8: "And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever  
It flung up momently the sacred river."

Rogue jerked back, gasping, and barely managed to remember to slap the timer before leaning heavily against the couch to catch her breath and force the scattering of memory-fragments back. A muffled groan told her that Remy was still conscious, though it was likely he'd feel like he got kicked in the head by a mule come morning. He always did, after their practice sessions.

"So, _cherie,_" Remy said. She turned her head to look at him; he lay flat on his back, arms and legs akimbo, and didn't even bother to turn his face from its contemplation of the ceiling. "So, how did _that _feel t' you?"  
She considered his question, rolling the remaining faint hint of his mind, redolent with spice and musk, in her own mind, dissipating it like mist. She was careful to keep her hands in her lap, away from anything explodable—the first time, she'd blown up a rather nice vase when she accidentally charged it. "I'm not sure…" she said slowly. "But it seems to me that there's a lot less of 'you' I absorbed this time, and I was able to get rid of that 'you' _without_ picking up your psyche."

"Aw, _chere_, y' don' want dis ole' Cajun in your head?" Now he turned his face toward her so she could see his teasing smirk.

"No thanks, Cajun." She replied seriously. "I've got enough psyches in my head—remember how I told you they got loose a couple months before Trask caught me? I don't want to have to go through that again." _Because then I just might chase _you_ away, too, like everyone else,_ she thought. She had held nothing back when she told him of her loss of control over her power, but she hadn't told him of the aftermath of the event—the wariness, the avoidance, the fear, and the never ending _watching_. No, she had no intention of inviting past demons like _that_ into the pleasant little life she and Remy had managed to cobble together here.

"Well," Remy said brightly, sensing her shift in mood. He turned over and crawled towards her. "Let's see what time we've made to-night, _oui?"_ He picked up the stopped timer, and his head jerked back in surprise. "_Merde_, you're a quick learner, _p'tite_." He turned the timer around so she could see the digital display. 21:08:45. Minutes: seconds: deciseconds.

"Oh. _Mah. GOD!"_ Rogue nearly shouted. _"Twenty-one minutes?_ Cajun, you're a miracle worker!" In her enthusiasm, she threw her arms around him. He grunted—being absorbed _hurt_—but returned her hug; her excitement was infectious. She heard the muffled sound, however, and pulled back in concern. "Oh, Remy…" she breathed, "I really did a number on you to-night, huh?" Chagrin filled her voice.

His cocky grin flashed on to his face at her concern. "Ah, don't worry about me, _chere. _ Good night's sleep, and I'll be just fine."  
She sighed in relief. "Well, good."

"But…"

"Yes?"  
A flush of embarrassment tinted his cheeks. " Could you help this ole t'ief up to his bed? Remy sure needs it."

She laughed gently at him—tough-as-nails Remy—asking for help. "Sure, Cajun." She slung one of his arms around her shoulders and helped him to stand, then up to his bed. After he was there, however, she couldn't resist a silent squeal of delight to herself, and she had to restrain herself from jumping up and down like a child given a gift. She forcibly calmed herself, and instead looked at Remy, the instrument of her freedom from the curse of her powers. His breathing had deepened into that of sleep rapidly. Well, no wonder. He hadn't gotten much sleep lately, between her nightmares and their training sessions. Several times more, morning had found Remy standing—or rather, sitting—vigil beside her bed, guardian against further nightmares. She smiled gently at him, noting how the tensions of the day faded as he slept. He seemed a bit younger than his 21 years; or perhaps it was that when he was awake he looked older. She knew she looked older than her almost-19 years when awake; perhaps it was the same for him. She laughed at herself as a yawn interrupted her inner babbling monologue, and decided to follow his excellent example, and go to bed.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Mmf—wha—?" A familiar hand covered her mouth briefly for a second, indicating the need for silence. Rogue blinked up at Remy, who crouched by her bed.

"Come wit' me. I think there's an intruder outside the house." His red eyes glowed faintly in the darkness. Those words chased the last of sleep from Rogue's system, and she slipped out of bed, now fully awake. She followed him down the hall to his own room, where he sidled along the wall 'til he reached a point where he could see outside of his window without being easily seen from below. He gestured for her to come to him, and she copied his example, moving with catlike grace along the wall. When she reached him, he moved aside slightly so she could slip in front of him to see what he was looking at.

Sure enough, a man in all dark clothing was creeping along between the azaleas and the wall of the building. He paused to peer inside any window or door he came to; right now, he was at their next-door neighbor's place. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be looking up, or to know he was being watched.

Rogue stepped away from the window into the enveloping darkness; Remy followed. Rogue swallowed harshly against a throat gone dry with fear.

"Do you think it's Trask? That he found us?"

"I don't know. What do you think we should do?"

"I think we should call that field agent that Agent Felix left us with. But—"

her stomach turned to ice—"The contact information. It's in the kitchen… There's no way to get it without _him_ seeing." She jerked her head toward the window.

A gleam of smile seemed to split the darkness. "Leave the information to me. Remember, I'm a _thief; _I'll get it. But you dial 9-1, and be ready to hit that final 1 if anything happens." At her stricken look he quickly added, "Not that anything is going to happen."

With that he turned to leave, then as swiftly turned back and brushed his lips against her forehead. "For luck."

He vanished before his whisper reached her.

She sat on his bed, tensely waiting, his bedside phone in hand, 9-1 already dialed. For lack of any better weapon, she had his chair beside her also, ready to throw at the intruder, should he make it this far.

The minutes seemed to take years, and every tick of her watch seemed to get louder and louder until—

She froze at the quietest of sounds outside the darkened doorway, then silently picked up the chair, preparatory to throwing it. She tensed as a hand tentatively slid around the doorframe—

—and was joined by a pair of fiery eyes that regarded her 'weapon' first with surprise, then amusement.

He made no comment as he joined her on the edge of the bed and slid the envelope from under his arm. He dumped its contents out, then charged the envelope enough that it gave a dull glow, enough to see by, while Rogue quickly sorted through the papers, 'til she found the business card she was looking for. There were two numbers listed: For Contact Information and For Immediate Assistance.

Swiftly she dialed the second number, as Remy un-charged the envelope and quietly replaced the information packets inside of it. The phone rang only once before it was answered by a woman who sounded _far_ too awake this time of night. "Yes?"

"This is Roisin Byrne and Raoul Gervais. We've got an intruder at—"

"I know where you are. The police are on their way, and I'll be along directly." The voice interrupted, and the line went dead. Rogue blinked at the phone.

"Talk about efficient; the cops are on their way." She whispered to Remy, who nodded and went to stand by the window again.

Sure enough, just a few moments later, blue and red lights were strobing along the front of the house. There was the sound of a scuffle from the azaleas, and in a matter of minutes, the intruder was captured.

A knock came at their front door. They froze. "Raoul? Roisin? Are you all right?" Came a voice, which Rogue recognized as the woman from the phone.

"We're fine," she shouted back.

"Come down here, please; we need to see if you know this guy."

Cautiously, and hand in hand, the pair descended the stairs and unbolted the door. Both squinted in the bright lights from the police cars, and the woman on their stoop—who flashed an FBI badge at them—led them to a squadcar where a sulky man was handcuffed to the door.

"You can't arrest me! You ain't read me my rights!" He shouted at the agent as soon as she neared him. She fixed him with a level look.

"Firstly, that's not why I'm here, and secondly, no one's asked you any questions yet. And you were seen trespassing. That's enough to get you arrested." She turned, ignoring him, and asked Remy and Rogue, "Do you recognize him?"  
Both studied his face in the flashing lights. Both shook their heads no—he wasn't anyone from Trask's complex that _they_ had seen.

A police officer walked up to the agent. "Seems that Mr. Joe Schmidt here has a TRO against him, courtesy of his ex-girlfriend, who claims he's stalking her. And just guess _who_ lives in this apartment complex?"

"The girlfriend?" The agent drawled.

"Exactly. So you—" he clapped the man on the shoulder "Are coming back to the precinct with me, my friend. And you all can go get some sleep." He nodded in Rogue and Remy's direction. "Sorry about the disturbance; have a good night."

The agent looked at them both. "Are you going to be all right?" She asked. They exchanged glances, and nodded wearily. "Well, then. I'll see you two inside, and if you need help, call. Good thinking tonight. Lots of my assignees don't call when they _do _need help; much better to call when you only _might_."

Rogue gave her a startled glance. "You mean you're just leaving, like that?"

The agent shrugged. "What can I do here? There is no apparent connection between you two and this guy. I'll check it out of course, but that's not something you need to be involved in. For now you just need to stay _in persona_ and act like this scared you like a normal intruder would—not like you're expecting someone to come after you." She started to leave, then paused and turned. "By the way—they really did mean it when they suggested you both pick up hobbies—and you, a gun." She pointed at Remy, raised an eyebrow significantly, and disappeared into the night.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Later, when all the tumult died down, Remy and Rogue finally got to go back to sleep. Or try, anyway. Remy had his arm around Rogue's shoulders, because of her shivering; Rogue was grateful for the warmth.

They entered the house, but found they were both still too keyed up to go to sleep immediately. They sat on the couch, and Rogue was startled to find she wasn't the only one trembling—but Remy wasn't trembling from cold. And "trembling" was the wrong word for it—he was shaking, shuddering with fear. "Hey," she caught at his sleeve as he moved to rise. "What's wrong?"

Angry, haunted red-on-black eyes met her own sympathetic gray-green. At the sight of the naked compassion on her face, Remy's face twisted, as though he were holding back tears, and the anger drained away, leaving him looking forlorn instead. "Hey," she said again, unsure of what to do. Suddenly she remembered jealously watching Kitty help a child calm from a fright at the playground; the valley girl had put her arms around the kid just _so,_ and…

Tentatively, she brought her arms around Remy's shoulders. That was all the invitation he needed to bury his face in her neck and weep silently. Instinctively she rocked him slightly, but said nothing, merely let him cry. Gradually, the shuddering and the tears ceased, and he sat up, wiping his eyes, embarrassed. "Hey. Do you… want to talk about it?" _Have I ever uttered those words before?_ She wondered idly.

He swallowed hard, looked away, met her eyes briefly, and looked away again. "I was terrified to-night," he said finally.

"Of what? Getting killed?"

"No. Of getting—captured again." He took a hiccupy breath and rushed out, "I'm afraid de next time, Trask will pull dese eyes you like so much out entirely, or blind me…" His gaze spiraled inward. "While they were cutting skin out of you, they were—experimenting with—m' eyes." He swallowed again, and finally met her gaze. "I—I can't take that again. The _pain…_" His eyes teared up again. He slammed his fist against his thigh in frustration. "Damnit! It's been months, why aren't I over dis shit already? I've had the counseling, I've had the surgeries…"

Rogue's hand moved over his fist, stopping it from moving. "But you haven't had the time," she said softly. "If counseling and surgery were all it took, _I_ wouldn't still be having nightmares. So why is it all right for _me_ to be afraid, and not you? Mutant we may be, but we're still human."

"I—I feel like I should be protecting you," he confessed. "You've been through so much already, even before Trask got hold of us…"

"Then I'll tell you what," Rogue said softly. "You go on protecting me, and I'll protect you. Deal?" She smiled tentatively at him.

A slow warmth suffused his features, chased the last of the fear away. "Dat's a deal I'll be holding you to, _chere_."

"Good." And to her surprise, he caught her and snugged her into the crook of his arm, being careful not to touch her skin to his. "Can we just stay here for a little while, _chere?"_

"Sure, Remy. Of course."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A week and a half later was Thanksgiving. Eventually they had decided they would stay in, have a small traditional "Norman Rockwellesque" meal, and watch a movie. Rogue was roasting the turkey and stuffing, while Remy worked on the gravy and side dishes. They had a very pleasant day of it, going out into the new-fallen light snow to buy the food, then to rent a few movies, then back home to cook and eat. They purposely didn't dress up for the occasion; in fact, Rogue was padding around in sweats and socks, while Remy tossed on some very old, worn jeans and a comfortably "broken-in" (i.e., just this side of falling apart) T-shirt.

At about four-thirty the doorbell rang. Rogue opted to get it, since Remy was busy cursing out the gravy which ­_refused _to thicken. She opened the door just in time to see the UPS guy climbing back into his snow-covered truck. "Thanks! Happy Thanksgiving!" She yelled at him absently, receiving a wave in reply, as she examined the package he had left. The box was utterly plain, about two feet square and perhaps eight inches deep. For all its size, it didn't weigh as much as it seemed like it should. It was covered in brown butchers' paper, and had no postmark, return address, or _anything _Rogue could see, only a blot of wax holding the paper together. A knot of worry began to form in her stomach; she was still calming down from the intruder scare a week and a half ago.

"Remy?" She called, caution in her voice. "Could you come here for a moment?"

"_P'tite_? What's taking you so—" Remy abruptly broke off as he came around the corner and saw her worried face. "What's wrong? What is it?" He hurried over to her.

"This package… it just arrived. But there's our address isn't on it, and there's no return address or _anything_ on it. Remy," she bit her lip. "What if someone's found us?"

He stroked his chin in thought as he examined the package through narrowed eyes. Those eyes stopped when they reached the wax. He leaned close to it, and his expression cleared. He began to chuckle.

"What? What is it?" Rogue asked anxiously.

"Ah, _ma cherie, ma famille _cannot ever do a thing without being dramatic about it," he chuckled. "Dis is from dem."

"How do you know?"  
"De Seal of de Guild," he replied as he carefully removed said waxen seal, and dropped it into her hand. She took it to the light to examine it more closely, and discovered it was a miniature of the tattoo on Remy's shoulder. She looked over in time to see his face light up at whatever was in the box. He pulled out something long and brown—a leather duster, stylishly cut—and something that looked like a metal billy-club. He did _something_ with his hand, and the club telescoped out into a flexible metal staff. Remy tossed back his head and laughed aloud. "Oh, _ma famille,_ I do love you so sometimes!" He looked back into the box, and removed a sealed envelope—sealed with more wax—and a smaller wrapped packet. "Here, dis is for you." He tossed it at her—but the packet opened in midair, and Rogue found herself catching nearly a full yard of silk, a shifting, shimmering thing that went from silver-gray to forest green: the same as Rogue's eyes. Remy's eyes traced the silk's path from the floor to where Rogue clutched it, startled. "How does she do it," he muttered to himself, startled at how well the colors suited Rogue.

Rogue ran the fabric through her hands, awed by its fineness and lightness. It was embroidered in black, too—black roses, bordered by a repeated stylized border. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was the Thieves' Guild logo again, repeated endlessly along the edges of what she realized must be a scarf.

"Well," Remy said, "Aren't you going to try it on?"

She looked at him, eyes wide. "Oh, Remy, I can't, it's too nice. They can't have meant to send this—especially not to me, your family doesn't even know me!"

"They send what they intend to send." Remy said, then relented. "But if you don't like it—"

"_Don't like it?_ I _love_ it; it's beautiful. But I'll tear it, or something."

"No, you won't."

"How do you know?"

"The scarves the ladies of the T'ieves Guild weave, they're special. I've never seen one be torn or look ragged—and some of de _femmes,_ dey wear them to jobs or fights. They're good enough that they're passed down generation to generation. That one there" he squinted, "I t'ink she's about… hmm. Eighty years old? Don't worry," he grinned at her dropped jaw. "You won't be able to hurt it."

"But—why did they send it to me? Like I said, your family doesn't even know me."

"Ah…" Remy looked a little embarrassed. "I did mention you in my letter to _ma pere _and _ma frere_. And sending that scarf is their unsubtle hint for me to come home, and t' feel free t' bring you with me." _Or perhaps _especially_ bring you with me._ "Well. Let's see what _ma pere_ has to say in his letter, maybe the old man finally explained himself."

"But first—let's make sure dinner doesn't burn!" Rogue exclaimed, hurrying toward the kitchen.

"_Merde! _My gravy!" Remy swore, and hurried after her, leaving the letter on the table.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Review Replies:**

**bored247**—oookay… between the squirrels below and the marshmallow men here, I am getting FRIGHTENED. (Seriously, who are the marshmallow men?)  
**Roguechere**—thanks for reading!

**ishandahalf**—woot! Ishy review! Glad you liked the chapter… I laughed Coke at the computer screen when I read: "I HEART the Guilds!" HAHAHAhahahahaha. Oo, and everyone is liking the Xavier's Psych Ward for Mutants bent. And so far as I know, cerebro can only pick up active powers when they are in use, OR it alerts Xavier that new powers WERE used when he wasn't there. Known mutants' powers, so far as I know, don't show on Cerebro's radar. So, no easy find of her there. Part of the reason Xavier gave up really looking for her. Please continue reading!

**simba317**—yeah, sometimes I'm all about the angst, others I'm all about the romantic fluffiness. :) Ooh. Scary thought, Remy and the Feebies getting together… eek! Ok… did you know you, like, totally started channeling Kitty during your review? Like, wow. :) : I'm really glad that it was just a product of her guilt, because it sorta irks me when she's written like that, unless it's done in a comedic way, and she's not the only one who's picked on, like all the characters are stereotypically picked on.: shakes head Huh? what irks you when Jean's written like what? And do you want Jean to BE the only one picked on, or is it when she is not the only one picked on that you like the story? I'm sorry but that sentence confused me. :) Help the Author!

**Shaishe**—thanks for your review and esp. the review of the Prologue. Keep reading! Please!

**chicita**—wow I think you're the only person whose thought the xmen-rogue inevitable reunion will be "funny." Did you mean that "funny, ha-ha," or "funny, weird"?  
**Cat2fat900**—the EVIL what said:) chill, that's why I _do_ allow anonymous reviews for double-reviewers. And, woot me! The squirrels salute me! Wait… the squirrels salute me? Edges away nervously  
**Guarded Secrets**—hey, new reviewers are always welcome. –oo, water and electricity, yeah, NOT a great mixture. Ah, well, live & learn… :)

**Crazed Fuzzle**—gotta say, I love your nick. And kudos to you for pickup on the "what are we again" vibe from Rogue. As to your question: Jean is a telepath, that means she takes in _and sends out_ thoughts. That could affect Rogue; also there is the more direct route of Rogue absorbs the thoughts of anyone she touches, and she certainly has had to touch Jean before this. And, no, Xmen will not run into her while she's in WP, but they won't be there for much longer anyway (hint hint.)

**sunspotmisery**—thanks for reading!  
**Minnaloushe—**nice pickup on the same name Henry/Henri. LOL and still people think Jean is evil! Poor idiot…

**tinuvieltelcontar**—why wouldn't she know how to cook? I'm honestly wondering. Did I write that in somewhere? I don't think I did. May I ask—what is that second smiley?

**Allimba**—Don't worry, Rogue & the X-men will meet in future—but _far_ in future. :)

**Lady Godiva— **Oh no… sinusitis? My singer's voice cringes in sympathy. And yeah, Jean is mourning Rogue, but she's also finally seeing how her pettiness affects others. And I hope this was enough Romy cuteness for you… MUCH more to come.

**Ladyflame13—**have you sorted out all the Alert stuff:)

**Eileen Blazer**—wow I've conjured "the Trump" (give me a _break)_ in my fic. The Apprentice? If you say so; I don't watch. :) Thanks for reading. And apparently my paper is fascinating or something—four members of my family have read it, as well as like 5 people at school. Weeeeird. :) But cool.


	9. “Where blossomed many an incensebearing ...

AGGGH What a MEAN cliffhanger for the season finale of Crossing Jordan. Jerks. _Now_ I'll just have to obsessively watch EVERY rerun ALL SUMMER LONG until programming begins again in fall.  
SO—Until I find a job (I just walked graduation for my Bachelor of Arts in History, yay me! 18 years of schooling DONE! And a 4.0 my last semester—what a way to leave!), hopefully I'll have a bit more time to plan plotlines and to write. We'll see how that works out, anyway. :)

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu  
by Alara

Chapter 9: "Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;"

"Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark."

—George Iles

Dinner had been rescued, and Rogue and Remy decided to eat their Thanksgiving meal before seeing what Remy's father had to say in his letter, which from its thickness was long. Once again, Remy said the blessing, but this time he added, "T'ank you also for the gifts of my life, a loving _famille_, and especially de gift of the–friendship—dis _beau femme_ and I share."

Rogue smiled across the table at him, and added, "I'm thankful for a living-place that's free of pain and for a true _companion _in my life—someone who understands me more than anyone else has before."

Remy returned her smile. "Amen," he said.

"Amen." She echoed.

They finished the meal quickly, though they found to their amusement that they _both _somehow had made mashed potatoes, so there would be plenty of starchy leftovers for the next several days. They cleaned up the kitchen together, since both had made the meal, and eagerly returned to the living-room couch to see what Remy's father had to say.

The envelope—or, rather, outer layer of paper—was of some heavy, cream-colored paper which for some reason made Rogue think of old papers, official documents in museums, things like that. Remy produced a knife from _nowhere_ and carefully separated the waxen seal—unmarked—that held the papers closed.

Remy closed his eyes briefly when he saw the length of the letter—at least eight pages. _He's got a lot to say, he's venting his worry over me, or he let everyone else get a word in. Or all three._

Rogue was eyeing the long missive warily. "Is he one of those people who _really _likes to write letters? Or is this all…official thief stuff that I shouldn't read or hear?"

Remy shook his head, auburn hair falling into his face. "If he had something so risky to say that you couldn't hear it, he never would have FedExed the letter. I'd have gotten it, and unless I told you, you probably wouldn't ever have known."

Rogue's eyebrows lifted a bit at that, but "Ah." Was all the comment she made. She was thinking, _I really don't think I have a good picture of what this 'Guild' is like… I _thought_ it was something like a union group, but sometimes, the way Remy talks, it seems like a monarchy or something…_

Remy brushed the hair out of his eyes, and glanced briefly at her before he unfolded the sheaf of paper. He began to read the coded letter.

"_My dear wayward son…"_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Several days earlier, in New Orleans**

Jean-Luc LeBeau slipped silently into the room, and simply watched his second son's unexpected courier eat for a moment. This young Henry had an attitude bigger than his 96-pound frame—just like Jean-Luc's own boys when they were young. The poor kid was malnourished, likely from living on the streets since running from his foster home a few months ago. Odd, that he'd run from a state-appointed foster home to end up in the Thieves' Guild, but then again, his foster parents had apparently turned out to be closet drug users. Henry's parents had raised the boy well: He didn't wait around to see how bad things got, he took his saved allowance and hightailed it out of there.

He was a quick study, Jean-Luc'd give him that. Henry had learned how to beg leftovers from diners, and taught himself how to pick pockets—_easy_ pockets, to be sure, but he managed to scrounge enough to get by. He apparently had contacts in legitimate runaway shelters in Ohio, and had planned ahead to make sure he had a warm place to sleep during the winter. _No idiot, for all dat he's 12 years old,_ Jean-Luc mused. _And uppity as they get._

The kid's entrance had been everything one could expect of a pickpocket-turned-courier sent by Remy. Obviously, his son had coached Henry carefully on what to do, how to get to the Guildhall, and who to talk to. Within an hour of his arrival in New Orleans, the kid had tracked down a Thief and spewed a long, complex password at him. The Thief was so startled and bemused by the kid that he'd bypassed the regular channels, and taken Henry straight to the Guildhall—blindfolded, of course—and straight to Jean-Luc, who was holding court at the time.

_He'll fit in all right, give him some training and schooling…_ Jean-Luc thought. Though he was being introduced to royalty of a sort, Henry summoned all the attitude his 12-year-old self could manage as he approached Jean-Luc, made a flamboyant bow, and handed over two letters, letters in a hand Jean-Luc had feared he would never see again.

_Remy._ Upon seeing the letters' handwriting, court had abruptly ended for the day as Jean-Luc swept the boy back into the private chambers of the Guildhall, to question him about _where_ he'd gotten the letters. The answer—"From Remy, duh"—had delighted Jean-Luc and the other Thieves close enough to hear.

Remy hadn't come home, even after he was told it was safe to do so, more than a year after his voluntary exile from New Orleans. After months of searching, no trace of the prince had been found. Everyone feared the worst. The churches and chapels joined to the Thieves' Guild hadn't been so crowded since Jean-Luc's own wedding, years before. The Assassins' Guild swore up and down that they had _nothing_ to do with his disappearance. Peace talks had continued, and Jean-Luc got to see Marius, the Assassins' leader, close up often. His personal concern for Remy was apparent. Jean-Luc tended to believe Marius Bordreaux when he said Remy's disappearance was none of his doing: even a strong suspicion that the Assassins had _anything_ to do with it could derail the peace talks entirely, or start the war anew. Bordreaux' eldest son, Julian, might be headstrong, but Bordreaux himself was not. No doubt he had declared the LeBeau family sacrosanct as soon as the peace talks looked like they were accomplishing something stronger than a shaky truce. Marius wouldn't jeopardize the thin alliance—he wasn't that stupid. And he was sharp enough to keep his son in line, as well. In fact, Julian had been confined to New Orleans for the duration of the talks, lest he inadvertently do something to spoil them. The time spent at his father's side did him good, however—he was slowly learning the diplomacy and restraint which 'til now had eluded him.

Speaking of 'elusive…' Jean-Luc turned his thoughts from his pondering of the current political situation to the letters his son had written. The letter of introduction described Henry to a tee, but it was Henry's own description of Remy's current situation that Jean-Luc found interesting.

"He's _really_ tall," the boy had said, "and he always is wearing nice suits—for his job, he said. And he showed me his tattoo. And he has the _coolest _eyes—" That comment nearly brought the Thieves' king to tears—there was no doubt the Thief who wrote these letters, who sent this child here, was his son. But then the boy had continued, "And Roisin is really nice too; she's so pretty and friendly, but she seems so sad sometimes. But she makes really good food. And she's got white streaks in her hair! They're cool, too. But she's not, like, _old_ or anything. Remy really likes her. Y'know, I mean, she's not, like, _thirty_ or anything." The boy had rolled his eyes expressively at the idea of Rogue being considered "old."

_Roisin, hmmm?_ Sounded like his son had found a girlfriend. _Well, we'll see if we can't finally get to _meet_ one of these girls for once,_ he thought. _But first, we need to get dat boy back home where he belongs._ _Now, let's see what he has to say…_ He turned away from the kitchen, and retreated to his study at the other end of the house to read Remy's letter in private.

Well, mostly in private, anyway. When he unlocked the heavy oaken door to the study, he found his elder son lounging in an easy chair before the fireplace.

Henri was on his feet in an instant. "Are de rumors true, _Pere?" _he asked anxiously. "Have we finally had contact from Remy?"

"_Oui._" Jean-Luc replied. "I've got his letter right here… haven't read it yet, though." He locked the door behind him and crossed the room to the fire and gazed sightlessly into it for a moment. "I was afraid I would make m'self look like _le fou_ laughing over my son's letter in public—my son who's alive!" He exulted for a moment. "So…I decided to read it in private instead." He looked at Henri. "But I'm glad you're here. You should read this, too."

"I'll admit, I didn't believe it when I heard it," Henri said. "But if dis letter is really from wayward Remy, believe me, _Pere,_ I will act as at least as foolishly over it as you will!"

Both men chuckled, then bent their head to the letter. It was brief, indicating that Remy hadn't had a whole lot of time to devote to its writing, but what it revealed was interesting. What it did _not_ reveal was even more so. Of the first five months of his silence, Remy said little, just glossed over it with a glib "After you called, I started for home. But I had a little trouble at first, and ended up in the Witness Protection Program." If what had been going on those five months could remotely be called "fun," Remy surely would have been bragging about it. Jean-Luc wondered what Remy was hiding. The letter continued, mentioning this "Roisin"—apparently, she was in the WPP with Remy, though again, he didn't reveal exactly how they had met. They had an apartment together—"living chastely, I assure you, _Pere—"_ and both had jobs, all courtesy of the WPP. Henri fell out of his chair laughing when Remy described his job.

"A _concierge? _Ah, _mon frere,_ how de mighty have fallen!"

The letter described Remy's meeting with Henry, and finished with, "See if you can't get some use out of the kid, _mon pere,_ he's sharp. Give my love to all, and warn those up-and-coming Thieves that Remy will be back sooner or later." That last made both Henri and Lean-Luc smile: one of Remy's duties as second son of the Guild's king was to help intensively train the newer members of the Guild. They had had it pretty easy since Remy's disappearance, frankly, though all of them were fiercely loyal. They would much rather be beat on by Remy than have no Remy at all.

"Well," Jean-Luc said with a sigh, sitting back in his chair."

"He sure isn't telling us much, is he?" Henri mused aloud. "Oh, well. We'll get him back soon enough, and get answers out of him then."

"I'll write him back," Jean-Luc proposed, "while you go and get some of his things together to send to him. And," he added, as Henri was leaving, "Tell your _Tante _de good news, hmm?"

A half-salute answered his request as the heavy door closed, enveloping Jean-Luc in silence. He felt unexpected tears prick his eyes as he went to his desk and removed the heavy vellum paper the family used for correspondence. _My son is alive… Dieu, thank you so much for that gift, at least…_ He shook himself from his reverie, and began writing. Once his portion of the letter was finished, he went around and collected various family members who would be upset if they didn't get their chance to get a word to Remy. _Tante_ Mattie, of course, and Henri; also Theoren and Etienne, the crazy cousins. _That should be enough,_ Jean-Luc thought, and sealed the letter before it could get any longer. A word to their agent in the FedEx company, and the packages—_Tante_ Mattie had tossed in some small packet before it was sealed—and the letter were on their way to Ohio.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Back in Ohio:**

_My dear wayward son:_

_I cannot express how happy we all were to finally have proof that you are, indeed, alive. Where you have been these past seven months, I don't know, but we all hope to have you home soon. I think, when you return, some changes may startle you—for one, we are finally at a tentative peace with the Assassins' Guild, one that has lasted with no incident for five months now. It would have been a full seven, but some of the younger Thieves and Assassins decided to prank each other as a non-deadly way of counting coup. Idiots. We need you here to help us with them, I swear some of them don't have two brain cells to rub together sometimes. _

_I will assume, since you haven't come home before this, that you have a damned good reason. Well, you did say you were in the Program; I thought you could extricate yourself from Federal keeping easily enough, but perhaps they're doing their job to the fullest extent they can, for once. I will only urge you—_come home soon._ The peace, she is shaky at times. I think having you here will help settle the more headstrong younglings amongst the Thieves, seeing the Wild Prince _not_ making waves for once. And when you do come home, bring this Roisin with you; your courier has told us some interesting things about her. I believe your _Tante_ is including something-or-other for her… I never know quite what that woman is up to. _

_At the bottom of this letter I'll include the code for where our ball is this February; come just before that, if you cannot come sooner. You were sorely missed at last year's. _

_I believe others wish to write something—_

_Remy LeBeau! _

Remy chuckled. At Rogue's glance, he explained, "Dat can only be my _Tante_ Mattie writing. She'll yell at me, no doubt."

_Remy LeBeau! Didn't I teach you better manners than to just up and leave without so much as a goodbye kiss for your _Tante_? You idiot. Have me so worried, I didn't cook for a week. Boy, you just get your Cajun self _back_ down here, or you'll be greeted with the edge of a wooden spoon instead of my kiss hello. And I don't care what your pere says, you _bring_ dat girl o' yours with you. There isn't a choice bout it. _

_And if Roisin is reading this—Bonjour, dear, and don't you let that smooth-talking Remy boss you any. He's learned to listen to a woman at times—I trained him myself. You just come down here to the bayou, and I'll teach you how to handle that boy. _

_Your brother wants to write something, Remy. Just remember that I love you, and to get yourself back here _NOW.

_Frere—_

How_ did you manage to get _Tante_ upset at you when there's most of a country between you two? She looks like she's looking for a target for her wooden spoon! Brother of mine, please, come home already. We've missed you a lot. And don't worry, Bella is dating some Assassin thug, and Julian hasn't been quite so hotheaded for a while now. It's safe, I promise. Just come home. Mercy—you remember my girlfriend—she misses you, too. And she threatens to help _Tante_ with that wooden spoon if you don't come by the Ball. _

—_Henri. _

_Hey, cousin!_

_Hey, cousin!_

Remy burst out laughing. "Dose are de two cousins I've mentioned before. They're as crazy as you think, plus some." Rogue chuckled, but made no comment.

_Our illustrious leader is glaring at us to finish already so he can send this out. So we'll combine all our messages into one:_

_COME HOME SOON! _

—_Etienne_

—_Theo_

In a smaller script, at the bottom edge of the page, Jean-Luc's handwriting returned with the cryptic line:

_Ancient Bread and Honey Affair near the stewplate's edge among the fiery points in Hell by the fourteenth after Birdsong Rings. _

_And I'll say it again: Come home soon, Remy. _

_Your father_

—_Jean-Luc LeBeau_

"Whew." Remy leaned back.

"Well, _Raoul_, you certainly are popular," Rogue commented.

"Well, _Roisin,_ you are the girl dey all want to meet. Wish we could go right now…" he said wistfully.

"Why not?"

"What?"  
"I said, why not? It's not like our jobs here are essential or anything… And I think I'd really like to meet your family."

"Yeah, but we've got to plan to avoid the Feds if we go to de Big Easy… earliest we could do that is after de New Year, I think," Remy mused. "No one goes anywhere early in the New Year… dat'd be de best time to get away. Well," he sighed, "We can plan it later. But you're sure you want to come wit' me into a nest of T'ieves?"

"They all want me there," she pointed out sweetly. "And this little town is driving me nuts. And if I don't have to deal with Mr. Straub again—ugh—that would be _wonderful._ If we leave in late January, we could give our notice to them, too."

"True. Den there'd be no upset when we left. Except to the Feds."

"Yeah."

They sat for a moment. Remy abruptly stood up. "Well, Roisin, if we're going back home, let's get to work on your control some more."

She smiled at him. "Sure." _Home._ Her throat tightened. Would anyplace ever really be _her _home? _Maybe once I'm back in the South… _She shook her head at her musings, and joined Remy who was gathering a pillow—for him to collapse on—and the timer—to check their progress with.

"Now, remember, calm down, and t'ink of dat marvelous twenty-one minutes _you_ achieved de other day…"

Both slept well that night, one dreaming of the home he'd so reluctantly left behind, the other of the home she'd never see again—and finally, the weight of that loss seemed lessened, with the sure promise of another place to try to belong. New York and New Orleans warred in Rogue's mind, but eventually the image of damp and gritty streets was supplanted by brightness and spice. She slept peacefully through the night, the first without nightmares since their escape from Trask.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Review Responses:**

**Canuck—**thanks. I don't think good relationships are based on physical attraction alone, nor on one's bedroom prowess. Some of the best relationships I've witnessed have been no more physical than an exchanged kiss. So thanks for your affirmation that it works. Plus neither of them need the emotional entanglement a physical relationship brings with it at this point in their lives. Yeah, Remy's fragile too, he just hides it better.LOL.I'll try to keep it snowing a while for you.

**Dragon Healer—**laugh _or_ cry? Go ahead and do both!  
**Lady Godiva**—Thanks. I love being able to write the Guild—all shadowy and mysterious and stuff… with their sledgehammer hints. I haven't decided about Bellabitch, I don't think she'll ruin anything, but they're not going to have a perfectly easy time of it—there'll be some complications. C'mon, I've got to put some conflict in somewhere!  
**Jade**—I don't know, is a week soon enough for a long review: ) Thanks for reading!  
**Teiya Renee—**continued as requested!**  
Shira's Song—**oo, do please retro-review, love seeing what ppl think of previous chapters AFTER reading "what came next". Oo, I'm writing realistically—well as realistic as you can get assuming Thieves' Guilds and Witness Protection Program and mutants…

**Will**—she won't be meeting the Xmen for a while, there's a lot of growing both she and the Xmen need to go through before they meet again. They will eventually, though.  
**A.M.bookworm247—**ook. 'insides gush into meaningless sap' doesn't sound like a healthy state for your insides to be in. You should get that checked. : ) You've reviewed before—just not signed in, I believe. Why, may I ask, do you ahte to admit liking my description of remy? Confuzzled. And 'hordes of fans,' tchah! I wish. : ) but the mini-horde I have is fine by me! **  
Kitrazzle Fayn—**dancing again! Woot! I haven't decided if the Xmen will be PO'ed or happy she's alive…. **  
ThoseRainyDays—**New Orleans is coming up—as if this chapter didn't give _that_ away.  
**enchantedlight—**updated, as requested!

**Shaishe—**ditto! Here's more.

**DemonicGambit—**noo… Jean isn't evil, exactly. Just misguided. And an overbearing idiot at times. But not evil. Really—her intentions may have been selfish at times, but not outright EVIL. **  
Allimba—**thanks! Hope you keep reading!  
**kyo-kitty—**No, sorry, I don't think I'm going to put Carol in. At least, not that I've decided yet. I've put Rogue/Roisin through so much already that she really doesn't need the extra angst. She might get Carol's _powers,_ though… do remember this is somewhat A/U, tho. And chill on the caffeine!  
**kyo-kitty—**again. OK… do NOT let your grades suffer for my writing! No bar scene, I hate drunken confessions of love because you can never trust them—BELIEVE ME, you cannot trust them, I speak from specific personal experience.  
**Iwant2goFAST—**yeah… When I'm writing that Rogue has 'a good singing voice,' I mean a _good_ singing voice… not a pop sound or country sound—not that those aren't good too—but a classically 'good' voice. **  
Cat2fat900—**yay. I'm glad I put the breakdown on Remy, poor guy IS only 21, and he's been thorugh a hell of a lot. takes complimentary squirrel eh… thanks!  
**Roguechere—**no, no über-macho Remy here. **  
Crazed Fuzzle—**no prob about the Jean confusion. LOL a 21 minute, 'let's-see-how-long-you-can-control-your-powers' kiss. That image made me laugh… it's like those Kiss the Car contests where you have to keep some part of your mouth on the car and if you last the longest you win the car. And Remy _is_ human, he needs flaws to be believable. **  
chicita—**yeah, Rogue has a temper sometimes, but she only lets it out when someone deserves it or she's in a pissy mood. She's quiet a LOT in Evo, which, remember, IS what I'm mostly basing these characters from.  
**ishandahalf—**ish! Woot! Hahaha, and my expl. Of Cerebro has foiled someone again! Muahahahah—ahem. I mean, yeah, makes sense, don't it. Don't worry she will—_eventually—_meet back up with the X-men. Yay! I had everyone worried with the intruder thing… that's a scary thing, to think your personal home space can be invaded… sorta seems like it should be off-limits to bad guys, right? But no such luck. And yeah, Remy was really missing his trench and bo. **  
PhantomPunkEvo—**ohh, my, I can't answer your question without giving anything away, but I can say, "pretty assuredly" at this point. **  
bored247—**ok. Well, you and your marshmallow men keep enjoying the fic. And if they gouge my eyes out with a fork, then I won't be able to write. So there. Mnyah.


	10. “Amid whose swift halfintermitted burst

Yes, yes, yes I KNOW, it's been a horribly long time since I've posted. I hate my computer. I had THREE freaking chapters ready—or nearly so—and my computer, for some reason, decided to revert to a prior setting, thereby erasing all the work I'd done. And it was a TON of work, _besides_ writing three—or nearly so—chapters. AAARGH. Plus I got a(nother) job, and that's been taking up some of my time, and then there's my summer penchant for going and digging up dead people over weekends for the DAs and the history people in the area…

So, I'm sorry, and will make every effort to update more frequently. Not to mention backup my writing onto separate, non-computer media.

Gaaaaah…..

On with the chapter.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 10: "Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst"

A week later, it was officially December, and the neighborhoods started to be decorated in earnest. Trees twinkled at night through their dusting of snow, Santas waved merrily from yards, and fields were covered in shin-deep white powdery snow. A few windows sported menorahs, unlighted as yet, and the churches in town sprouted wreaths hung impossibly high overnight.

Rogue was worried.

Not only did she not have any clue of what to get Remy for Christmas, but she also didn't know what she was going to wear to the law firm's Christmas—oops, sorry, 'seasonal'—dinner on the upcoming Saturday. Remy was, of course, coming as her escort. She'd be interested to see what he thought of her coworkers—and vice versa. She'd seen pictures of the other secretaries' boyfriends and husbands on their desks, and frankly in her opinion, none of them held a candle to Remy, even on a bad Remy day. Which, come to think of it, she had yet to see… which made it all the more imperative that she find the _perfect_ outfit for the dinner. _Oh. My. God._ She laughed at herself. _Am I getting girly-girl, or what? I'd better quit woolgathering and get in there for my lesson._

Remy had, quite by accident, found a vocal teacher at the church they attended on Sundays, and promptly reminded Rogue of her promise to give it a try. She'd gone to her first lesson last week rather reluctantly—and talked of nothing else when she got home. So now she had lessons twice a week, on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Her instructor, Ms. diDulcco, was a petite woman with a simply amazing mezzo-soprano voice. She liked Roisin a lot, and seemed to think she'd progress quickly through the introductory stages of vocal training. But for now, she had Roisin working on some simple songs, vocalizes, scales, and breathing exercises. It quite surprised Rogue that there was so much physical work involved in singing. Before, she'd just, well, _sung,_ with the radio or whatever. Now she was conscious of _how_ air was filling her lungs, of lifting her ribcage off of her lungs, of loosening her jaw and throat and neck muscles. It all made a difference, she found, and it only helped that learning something new and challenging excited her.

Tonight, Ms. diDulcco had her run over her warm-ups and scales, then pulled out a new piece of music.

"I think I'd like you to perform this piece, Roisin," she said, in what Roisin had come to think of as her 'expectant' tone. This was the tone that said, 'I'm telling you to do something because I know you can and should, and you'd better have a damn good reason to turn me down.'

"P-perform? Like in front of people?" Roisin blurted. "But I've only just started studying!"

The look Ms. diDulcco gave her made it clear that 'but I'm new' was not a damn good reason for turning her down.

"If I didn't think we could get it ready, I wouldn't have suggested it. And if my usual soloist at the church hadn't just come down with a bad case of laryngitis and pneumonia combined, I _probably_ wouldn't have suggested it. Besides, if you listen to Christmas music at all, I'm sure you've heard this song both badly- and well-performed. I think your version would qualify as a 'well-preformed'—but we'll have to see how you do with it."

Roisin considered for a moment, then said, "So. Which song is it?"

"O Holy Night"

Roisin frowned. It _sounded_ familiar, but… "Could you sing or play a little of it? I think I might know it."

"Sure. But keep in mind, I'm a mezzo; you'll be singing it a good deal higher."

After the first few notes, Roisin felt her eyes fill with tears. How could she have forgotten? This was the song Kurt used to hum at this time of year—he hummed it in German, he said, and Kitty always tried to pin down _how_ someone could hum in another language; she'd never figured out he'd been teasing her.

Upon seeing the tears, Ms. diDulcco lifted her hands from the piano and stopped singing. "Roisin, dear, whatever is the matter?"

She gulped back the tears, and smiled shakily. "Sorry. I just… Someone who used to be close to me always loved that song…" She blinked out the last of the tears, shook herself, and looked Ms. diDulcco in the face. "Yes. I'll sing it."

Ms. diDulcco smiled. "Good. Now, let's start with gong over the melody…"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy considered the new weight in his pocket, and grimaced. His hands smelled of cordite and were somewhat powder-burned. It had been son long since he'd fired a gun, he'd nearly forgotten what it was like. _Damn de Feds, anyway,_ he thought as he exited the firing range. _Can't wait to get back home where I can use m' own God-given powers again…_ His mood brightened at the thought of seeing steamy New Orleans again. _Just a few months more.. Now, t' find m' Roisin Dubh a Christmas gift…_

Here was a new experience for the Cajun charmer. Not _buying _a gift, no, that he'd done a dozen times before—but buying a meaningful gift, and for Christmas besides? No experience in that realm as yet.

Add to that the difficulty presented by Rogue's (understandable) unwillingness to speak overmuch of her past, and Remy was left with the problem of finding a meaningful gift that didn't inadvertently bring bad memories with it.

He had no idea what to get her.

_Well,_ he shrugged philosophically, _at least I have until she gets out of her voice lesson to look… Need some inspiration, though. _As though in response to his thought, more snow began to fall, making the light from the streetlamps hazy and muffling what little sound there was. Remy snorted as he looked up at the softly floating flakes. "Well, I _did_ ask for inspiration. Guess dat's a hint to keep looking." Suiting action to words, be resumed peering into the shop windows as the snow piled all the deeper.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

By Thursday night, Remy was much more relaxed than he'd been on Tuesday night. He had worried over What To Get Roisin for a couple of days, to be sure, with no luck coming up with any good ideas. To his embarrassment, he'd even resorted to asking couples coming into the hotel what they thought he should get her. The women rolled their eyes that he didn't _know_ already, and most of the men simply gave him eloquently sympathetic looks—they didn't know what to get their lady friends, either.

_Damn_.

Finally, on Thursday night, before he'd left work to walk Roisin to her voice lesson—they were both still paranoid about Trask and his men, though there'd been no definite sign of him—before he'd left the hotel, one of the teenaged maids asked him why he was looking so worried. She was a pretty young thing, working at her first part-time job over the holidays from high school, and like the rest of the females on staff, had half fallen in mooncalf-love with 'Raoul'. Fortunately for him, most of the females on staff had also noticed the stunning young woman who periodically dropped in to visit Raoul at work, and simply signed enviously at Roisin's luck, and continued pursuing other more available men. This particular girl, Kristy, who was rather brilliant in her class at school, not only noticed the connection between Raoul and Roisin, but also somehow kenned that they were in an odd situation, not boyfriend-and-girlfriend, but not just casual acquaintances, either. Kristy had approached him as he shrugged into his trusty duster (which she had pronounced 'sooooo you, Raoul!' as soon as she had seen it). "So, Raoul, what's bothering you?" She asked conversationally.

He jerked around, nearly catching her in the face with the end of his fuzzy scarf. "Who says something's bothering me, _petite_?"

Irritated, she shook her light brown curls back from her face. "_Duh._ Really, Raoul. You'd have to be _blind_ not to notice how distracted you've been the last couple of days. Did you and Roisin have a fight, or something?"

His shoulders slumped slightly, defeated by her keenness. "It's worse, _p'tite_…" he moaned. "I have no idea what t' get de _femme _for Christmas!"

Kristy rolled her eyes expressively. "Geez, and I thought you were such a ladies' man… Get her jewelry, duh! I mean, really, what woman _doesn't _like jewelry?"

"But—well—but—" Remy considered the advice for a moment. "Damn. Why didn't I think of that?"

Kristy smiled at him even as she rolled her eyes again and shooed him out the door. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go find the perfect piece!"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

By Saturday night, Remy was well-content with the piece he'd picked out for her. He hummed to himself as he lathered up in the shower, getting ready for the office dinner party of Roisin's. _Wonder how Mr. "Who's that long-haired punk" will react to me?_ He mused, as he rinsed, shut off the hot stream of water, and toweled himself dry. Unlike Roisin, he'd had no problem figuring out what to wear—one of his favorite work suits should do fine for an evening out amongst professionals, even if they _were_ law professionals.

Rogue, for her part, had finally found a dress she liked enough to wear again, should the need arise—there was no way she was going to buy a one-time-only dress for her job if she could help it; they didn't pay her _that_ much. She had ended up with a modest, knee-length dress of deep red velvet with three-quarter sleeves and a somewhat 'cowled' neckline, which complimented her slim, rather boyish frame. The red was vibrant against her pale skin, and made her skin look like velvet-covered, shining alabaster, and contrasted with her auburn hair, giving it the rich, living color of a well-oiled chestnut table. Her makeup, she'd decided, would be minimal, just some silvery-gray eye shadow just above her mascara'd lashes. The gray so close to her hazel eyes made the green in their depths pop out, which made her outfit very Christmas-y indeed. An added bonus was that Remy's suit of deep blue contrasted with the red very well; they would be a very good-looking pair, she thought.

Now, if she could only get her stockings on without putting a run in them… She sighed. It was at times like this that she could actually empathise with Kitty when she complained, "Gawd, sometimes it, like, totally _sucks_ to be a girl!" _Aw, shit. I should not have thought that._ Thinking of Kitty made her think, by extension, of Kurt, and the thought of the quirky pair of friends brought in turn memories of the few _really _good times she'd had with the pair at Xavier's—usually around Christmas too—

She felt hot tears slip down her face and splash onto her hands, and she quickly tipped her head back to try to keep more from spilling, but no use. It was odd; she didn't feel like _crying_ or anything, but suddenly her eyes were like an open spigot with hot tears pouring out. And she wasn't sad, exactly, that she wasn't _with_ Kurt and Kitty… She frowned at herself. Why, then, did the gaping hole of loneliness beneath her breastbone fuel these tears? _Maybe it's just that I'm coming to realize how alone I was at Xavier's even before I lost control… I mean, I'd have thought that Kurt and Kitty would have stuck by me no matter what, but weren't they nervous around me, suspicious of me, just like the rest of them? And they obviously didn't object—or not too much—when Scott said to abandon me at Trask's… _The tears flowed faster.

A tapping at her door barely shook her from her thoughts. "_Chere?_ Are you about ready? We've got to go soon or we'll be late." When Remy received no answer, he tapped again. "_Chere_?" Still no answer. "_Chere_, I'm coming in." He opened the door, a small fearful part of his mind expecting to see the room in shambles, aftermath of an unforeseen attack by Trask. To his relief—and consternation—Rogue sat on the bed, hands clutching her nylons, tears streaming down her face. She turned that tear-streaked face toward him, looking lost.

"_Ah, chere…"_ he murmured sympathetically, and crossed the room to wrap her in his arms. Gratefully, wordlessly, she turned her face in to his broad chest, and let her tears run out.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled a few moments later. "I don't know why I'm crying. Really. And I'm tired of you always having to come and rescue me from my stupid thoughts. I'm sorry."

"Ssh, _ma belle,_ don't be sorry. It's all right. You were thinking of _them _again, weren't you?"

She nodded, and moved to her mirror to repair the water-damage to her makeup. "Yeah. Just trying to figure out whether I really ever was trusted there… I did start out, after all, living with one of their enemies."

Remy nodded, and rose to walk up behind her. "I can understand them not trusting you _at first_ because of that, but you were with them for several years, _non?"_

"Yeah…"

"Well, if they were _going_ to really trust you at all, don't you think they would have by the time you had your loss-of-control episode? That's how I see the situation as you've described it, anyway, _chere_."

"Good point," she agreed, finishing the final touch-ups of her makeup. "Well. I'm _done_ crying—for tonight, at least." She smiled self-deprecatingly as she turned to face him where he crouched close to the chair. "Shall we go, then?"

"Well…" he paused, and looked at her consideringly. "I dunno. Y' look like you're missing something, _chere."_

She reflexively looked down at herself, and laughed. "Oh. You mean my stockings. Yes, I should put them on, shouldn't I?"

To her surprise, Remy glanced at the stockings as though he hadn't noticed them. "Oh. Well, yes, but that wasn't what I was referring to."

"Really? What am I mis—" she cut herself off in mid-sentence as suddenly Remy's hand, holding a flat, hand-sized box, appeared in front of her startled eyes.

His eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter, at having successfully surprised her, as he said, "Happy Birthday, Roisin."

Her mouth opened once or twice, but no sound came out. Finally, she stuttered, "I—but what—how did you know today was my birthday?"

He smirked openly. "It's all in de files, _ma chere._ De FBI types are thorough, _non?_ Lucky for me." He paused, then asked—was it her eyes playing tricks, or did he look a bit nervous? –"You going to open that gift?"

"Oh!" She looked down at the little box, then seized it, mock-greedy, and proceeded to v-e-r-y carefully remove the wrapping paper, ensuring that even the tape didn't tear.

"_Chere_…" he groaned, and she laughed and tore the paper off. Inside was a plain, flat box, which she carefully lifted the lid from, and squealed with delight.

"Remy! It's beautiful!" Inside the box lay a bracelet of the 'torc' sort, an oval-shaped round band with a part of the oval left open, to put it on and take it off by the space. They were made to be flexible enough to be spread open to go over a wrist, but elastic enough that a bracelet of this sort returned to its shape once around the wrist, and needed no clasp, since it fit closely enough that there would be no danger of it falling off accidentally. Instead of the usual 'copper-for-balance' type of torc bracelet, though, this one resembled a true ancient torc; the band was of twisted silver, and the end parts, the finials, which faced each other across perhaps an inch of open space in the band, were capped with gold. Inset into the gold were shaped, softly pointed rubies which matched the dress she was wearing nearly perfectly.

Ecstatic, Roisin quickly slipped the bracelet onto her wrist, and then flung her arms around Remy. He turned his head to look at her joyous face, but wasn't expecting her to be aiming a kiss at his cheek at the same moment. The predictable happened: she landed her kiss on squarely on his mouth instead.

Without conscious thought on his part, Remy's body took full advantage of the accident to swiftly kiss her back, hard, before she had the chance to pull away. He knew she would, by the suddenly widened, embarrassed eyes so close to his own, and the sudden intake of breath less than an inch from his face.

She pulled back from him quickly. "I—oh—ah—sorry," she said, pale cheeks aflame.

"_Porquoi_, _cherie_? Had I known a bit of shine your direction would get me _that_ reaction, I'd have given you something like that ages ago," he joked easily, ignoring the voice inside of his head that shouted, _Kiss her again! C'mon, Cajun Charmer, kisskisskiss!_

She blushed a deeper red, apparently unsure of how to take his joke. Before she could respond, though, he said quickly, "We should be going, _non?_ It'll take a while to get to the restaurant, even in a taxicab, and it's getting late."

"Ah—yeah, you're right," she said, carefully not looking directly at him as they exited the room. _God, _Roisin_, quit acting like a schoolgirl who's just had her first kiss!_ She mocked herself, angry at herself for pulling away, and angry at herself for not being able to control her blushes. She ignored that sensible part of her brain that chimed in, _Well, technically, it _was_ your first kiss, since your powers kicked in the one time Cody managed to land one on your mouth._

_Shaddup…_ she muttered silently to herself, and took and released a deep breath. _Now, I've got to figure out whether he meant to kiss me back? Or was that an accident too—maybe an automatic reaction on his part. Yeah, that's got to be it—he's had _tons_ of girlfriends, right? I suppose everyone else but me automatically kisses back when they're kissed. Right? Yeah. In any case, I've got to play this off as what it was—_just an accident_—or I might lose the one true friend I've got. And I can't afford to lose him…_

In a curious, cautious half-silence, the pair got into the cab, and left for the party. Neither could quite meet the other's eyes, but there was no sense of hostility in the close confines of the cab's back seat. Suddenly, they both said at the same time, "That was just an accident, right?" They both laughed, slightly forced.

Remy said, "Yeah, an accident… and besides, friends kiss each other, right? Good friends do."

"Yeah," Rogue said, relieved. _Well, now I know how he's going to play that off… "_Of course. No big deal, right?"

"Right. Just an accident."

"An accident."

"Right."

They nodded, and then, as it was time to leave the cab, paid, and exited the cab into the swirling snow outside. The restaurant was brightly lit, and a sign outside proclaimed, "Welcome to the Law Offices of Walker, Walker & Straub."

"Well." Rogue said, and smiled up at Remy. "Care to offer a lady your arm? The walk's a bit slippery for heels."

Remy smiled back at her, nearly all the tension dissolving between them. _So, we are just putting it behind us… well, if that's the way she wants it… _"But of course, _mademoiselle,"_ he said, extending his crook'd arm toward her.

Arm in arm, the Southern couple entered the warm and brightly lit restaurant. Roisin's spine straightened as she entered the building. _OK. Just get through this one night, and that's the last you have to see of them… You'll be gone by the time all the bigwigs are back from holiday vacations. Just one night. _

She pasted a bright smile across her face as they left their coats at the checkroom, then entered the room which had been set aside for the office party. They were given flutes of champagne—and cheap champagne, too—as soon as they entered the room. She had to resist the urge to grit her teeth as five steps in, they encountered some of her coworkers, and her smile became ever-oh-so brighter.

_Just one night…_ she reminded herself, then said evenly, "Charlene, Doris, I'd like you both to meet Raoul Gervais…"

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Oh, BTW, if anyone's interested, the dress I wore for a Christmas concert a few years back, and the bracelet I recently received as a gift. Pics, anyone? E-mail me! (Don't put it in a reply or the mods might get POed.)

**Review Replies: **

**Sweety8587**—or Sasha. Whomever I'm writing to… PLEASE don't whack your noggin (or other parts of you) with objects of any sort… especially not objects of the hard, frying-pan sort… Oh, and don't worry, Tante and de boys, &c will be prominently featured pretty damn soon. Please keep reading and reviewing—both?—of you!  
**bored247**—Yes Remy's fam IS insane, but fun too. : ) Happy you (& the marshmallow men) enjoyed the chapter, please keep reading!

**Shaishe**—hope I didn't make any weeks in the interim worse for you 'cos you were hoping for an update after a 'horrible week at work'… if I did, very very sorry, hope you keep reading! BTW, _did_ you go back and read the WHOLE damn thing (so far) again?

**enchantedlight—**thanks for the review—please keep reading!  
**Roguechere**—baby? Who said anything about a baby? I didn't. No, no kids anytime soon, sorry… gonna have to wait for the natural run of things. : ) But I hope you read nonetheless.  
**A.M.bookworm247—**Hey! Write like you're in English class all you want! Have you noticed that's a reason my fic is readable: ) Anyway. Yeah, I figure, as far as romance goes, a little sap goes a LOOOOOOOONG way, especially when just about every sappy thing has been done before. Woot! And another Jean-Luc fan is born. Yay. I try to keep the Guild likeable, generally, really. So—keep reading, and reviewing! Thanks for doing so so far!

**ishandahalf**—ish! Yay! You know you give my spellcheck serious issues? Anyway. Glad you liked the chapter! And my Guild is spot-on? Yaaaaay. And what little we saw of Jean-Luc in EVO, I never really agreed with. So, he's much cooler in MY little EVO world. Oh, and Remy'll 'fess up eventually about Trask, just not in a letter. So, this chapter was so TOTALLY not quick like a bunny on crack, it was more like a drunken wandering snail's pace. Sorry. Got my animals and my drugs mixed up. I'll try to not let it happen again.

**simba317**—wooo, looong review! Yay… Glad you liked The Letter, and that you like little Henry… I like the little bugger myself, might keep him around. Glad to know the background and What's Been Going On At Home Since Remy Disappeared is interesting to you, all of that will come into play later, and besides, Remy needs to know this stuff. Ah, and, "And like duh, Rogue is so his girlfriend, whether or not they see it yet." ROFL at that comment. Totally! And A-HA, you picked up on that Remy's not brought anyone else home! Kudos to you! And you also noticed Tante's interest; double kudos!   
Bizarre… the cousins got the shortest bit but everyone loves their part… wow, I must be good or something… probably 'or something,' I know… Thanks for reading & reviewing!

**chicita**—Name of the fic is from a Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem of the same name; it's also where all of the chapter titlequotes are coming from. Cerebro won't pick up on Rogue's powers unless 1, she's actively using them while X is looking for her, 2, her powers are new to Cerebro, which she's not—remember, it's always saying 'new mutant signature detected' or something to the effect. Oh, heck, e-mail me, I have this all writ out someplace… : )

**PhantomPunkEvo**—How can I give you a hint as to how much longer 'til the X-Men come looking, when I'm not totally sure meself? Eeeh… 'a while' is the best I can tell you for now! Sorry… please keep reading anyway!  
**Crazed Fuzzle**—STILL love your handle. Don't worry, we'll be seeing a heckuvalot more of Remy's family soon. And, no, Belladonna is not obsessing over Remy… but someone else is… and I don't mean Rogue/Roisin… hee hee hee…  
**Cat2fat900**—No worries, the complimentary squirrel is getting along famously in the backyard. Yeah—death threats with 'come home Remy's. reaaaally makes him want to come home, right? Lol. Ahh, I love the Guilds… and Good Lord, you cracked me up with "7 Mins in Heaven… times 3…"  
**Lady Godiva—**woohoo, giggliness! And of COURSE the cousins are gonna liven things up! Hmm… dance, work, school… you sound like me a couple of years ago, but me being the masochist I am/was, I added on horseback riding, stage shows, live singing performance, CD recording... God, I was mean to myself. Please don't be mean to yourself with your busy schedule! Hey—I know—take a while out to read fics! Or poetry over on : ) Noo, officer, no shameless plugging here…

**Iwant2goFAST**—Ahh, reassurance, others also don't want just a let's say "I love you" and hop into bed! Thanks for reading—please keep doing so!  
**Nettlez**—Thanks for reading! Please keep reviewing!  
**lovinthis—**Glad you like it! Please keep reading… I'll try not to take seasons between updates again…

**Ladyflame13**—On your Ch. 8 review question: "Since Rogue used her powers won't Cerebro find her and the X-Men come looking for her?" Nope… they're not looking for her anymore, Prof. X would have to accidentally be 'looking' at her with Cerebro to fid her now. Didn't I answer that question before…?  
**FluidDegree—**OMG I love that you love this story : ) and, hush! No one was supposed to notice overmuch Tante's interest—oh what the hell. Yes, Tante is awesome, she's gonna be putting her two cents in: ) Once they get down there, of course. 'Cos what's a relationship without an old auntie chiming in? And I'm sorry I made you cry at Ch. 4. But not too sorry. winks  
**Ladyflame13**—'Rock on'? Still rockin'!

**kyo-kitty—**N'Orleans should be coming up soon, does all go as I plan it to… Thanks for reading!

**Canuck—**I put lots and lots of SNOW in this chapter JUST for you! Seriously, I've a scribble in my handwrit notes to "add snow—canuck likes". See? Reviews really DO make a difference! Christmas chapter is coming up shortly—how could I NOT add a Christmas chapter: ) Thanks for reading & reviewing!

**MusiqMistress**—Aaaah, gotta love the bits of comedic relief. I –do- try to put things like that into my fics, especially as I tend to be so heavy-handed with the angst… Glad you like it. The flow is good? Even better! Thanks for reading! And also, thanks for the multi-chapter reviewing! I was flattered that you tore thru the 9 chapters in a few days and reviewed every freaking chapter! Having that nice, steady reviewing helps me 'see' the story through the readers' eyes a lot—what is working, what's not, etc. Keep reading—and reviewing!  
**sunspotmisery—**Well, conjuration is done… whaddaya think?  
**sakura5tar**—Interesting name. you think my story's great? blushes Awww… Don't worry I think they'll end up south within the next 3 chapters, if all goes well…  
**Eissalande**—Updated, finally. Hope I haven't lost your interest with the loooong space between updates!

**tinuviel-telcontar**—thanks, great to know there are other people who like their Remy less shallow than the next lay… of course, that Remy is VERY fun to take out and write with once in a v-e-r-r-r-r-y long while… but he doesn't fit in here. :) Thanks for reading! And whaddaya mean, don't forget to make it a Romy? I'm building up to it. Gotta be great. I mean, GONNA be great. Yeah. MmHmm. grins  
**SpitefulMage**—O.o Wow. You _adore_ the story? Didn't think it was worthy of adoration, but hey… who'm I to argue: ) And, yes, we DO love our dear poor tormented Logan. Or is it, we love to torment our dear poor Logan: P Thanks also for the commentary that my characters are realistic—that's the kind of helpful, cheery comment we writers ­need­ to keep writing!  
**Eileen Blazer—**yes, I did sneak it by. Don't you know—I control the internet! Muahahaha—ahem. Sorry. No, I really don't, I don't want the blame for all the weird shite. Hey, if you want 'real' mail, drop me your sn addy, I'm always jotting off random notes to people. Damn waste of postage sometimes, but whatever! Glad you're liking the 'power and prestige' Remy, tho' you ain't seen nothing yet! Keep reading, please, even if it DOES take me months for a chapter! Especially as I've no desire to see what 'something' is. : ) Glad you're still reading.


	11. “Down to a sunless sea”

Wow. Who'd have thought a new job could be so time-consuming : ) Anyway, here's the next chapter. And check my ff. net authorpage for a one-off short AU X-men story, to be posted SOON. Perhaps even THIS WEEKEND (20-21 August 2005). Possibly.It's based on a ballad. Why? Because I love ballads, and I love reading, singing, and illustrating them, and I Said So, That's Why.

Query: How many people would hate me & stop reading if I had Rogue shift over to her 'false name'—there _are_ reasons and justifications, which I won't go into here, but would anyone try to hunt me down and put a stake through my heart or something? I'm asking before I cause fanfic. net to crash with furious reviews…

E-MAIL ME your thoughts, if any… please **do not** waste a whole review on something like that. I hear that the mods are cracking down _hard_ on reviews that are not directly related to the stories at hand. I don't think they'd have a problem if you mentioned your thoughts on the matter, but I can easily see people putting nothing in their review about the story and having it all about what they think about my proposed idea. Besides, that's distracting to me to get a review that I can't catalogue with a specific chapter—and should anyone review and just reply to this bit of the chapter header, I _will _erase the non-review as is my prerogative as Author. (Hear me roar, right?) No—I seriously print off ALL reviews that I receive and file the comments with each chapter so when I review I can see what works and what doesn't, and what plot bits need developing, and what things readers found interesting or hated.

So—let me know what you think via e-mail, or **briefly** **and** **within an actual honest review**. I'd hate to see my story blocked because of violations—which I hear the mods are ALSO doing. Thanks!

On with the Chapter!

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 11: "Down to a sunless sea."

_Okay. Two hours down, two to go... Damn. I think I need something stronger than this cheap champagne..._ Rogue thought idly to herself, only half-listening to her coworkers ooze over how handsome 'Raoul' was, and how lucky she was to have such a guy, and just _wait_ 'til he let himself go, and one day she'd look up and he'd be overweight and out of shape like Doris' husband, Dave, and she was sure she didn't see _that_ coming out of her onetime jock-star boyfriend from college, so 'Roisin' had better get after him _now_ to keep in shape...

Rogue tuned Doris' incessant but good-natured babble out for a moment, as she allowed her eyes to pick Remy out of the crowd. He was chatting up the Misters Walker, the nice bosses, and apparently they liked him quite a lot. In fact, the younger Mr. Walker had given her a thumbs-up and, when he had walked by, had leaned in to say, "You've got a good man there, Miss Byrne; hang on to him," and quickly walked away. Right now, Mr. Walker and his older brother, Mr. Walker, were laughing heartily at something Remy had said. His auburn head turned in her direction, and his unusual eyes winked at her, seeing her staring at him. Rogue blushed and turned her attention back to the table, and Doris, who was just finishing up her advice-list: "...And for God's sake, with a man like _that_, don't _ever_ think about letting him look at another woman if you can help it; suspicion isn't anything a young thing like you has any experience with, I daresay, but still, cultivating a healthy bit of suspicion only keeps things you love safer, I say." The woman nodded significantly as she wound up her matronly tirade.

One of the younger women at the law firm, Charlene, who often worked with Roisin, and was the one to tip her off about the skirts, leaned in quickly, to take advantage of the sudden silence left by Doris.

"So, Roisin..." Her voice lowered conspiratorially, her sight somewhat glassy: Obviously, the cheap champagne was having a far more profound effect on the young woman than it was having on Roisin. All of the other women at the table pretended they weren't listening—until they heard Charlene's question. "So..." A wicked smile crossed her face. "How is he in bed? He looks like he'd be fan_-tas_-tic! Is he into...y'know..._wild_ stuff?"

Half a dozen heads leaned in around the table—this was a question no-one who had seen Remy wanted to miss the answer to.

"I—Uhm..." She gulped, and felt her face go scarlet. _I probably match my dress right now... what the heck do I say to that! She's lucky she gets the drunk excuse right now..._Her eyes flickered around the room, trying to find Remy so _he_ could come get embarrassingly personal questions inquired of him. _Damnit._ She saw his back heading toward the restrooms.

Before she could come up with _anything_ to answer Charlene with, her other boss, the disgustingly fat Mr. Straub, stepped up to the table. The other women all stopped leaning in to interrogate Rogue, and started chattering about inconsequential things. She had never thought she'd be glad to have _him_ walk up to her but, well, _Never say never,_ she thought to herself.

"Ms. Byrne," Mr. Straub said to her. "A word, please?"

Internally, she sighed, but outwardly smiled and responded pleasantly. "Certainly, Mr. Straub." _Less than two hours left,_ she reminded herself. _I can make small talk for a while, can't I?_

They moved some distance from the chatty women at the table, so they ended by standing near to the doors; the slight draught made Rogue shiver.

"So, Ms. Byrne, I hear you will not be returning to us after the holiday season," he began.

_Shit. I'd hoped he wouldn't have seen that resignation letter until _after_ tonight... _she thought. "Yes, that's true, Raoul needs to return to his family. There's a personal situation that he needs to be there for," she said evenly. "Unfortunately, I can't stay in town. I have to be there for Raoul, since he's my friend and all, and frankly, I can't afford to keep up an apartment by myself—and that was _not_ a plug for a raise, honest," she quickly added, smiling as charmingly as she could. _Come on, you've made your obligatory thirty seconds of conversation with me, now move on to someone else,_ she silently willed him. "I really _do _have to move with Raoul. He's done a lot for me this past year, and I at least have to pay that back, and besides, I _do_ care what happens to him, so…" She babbled a bit nervously. What on earth did Mr. Straub think he had to talk to her about?

Apparently, he'd found something to talk to her about, since his beady eyes narrowed, nearly getting lost in the folds of flesh on his face. "Did you just say you couldn't afford to stay here because that punk there is moving back home?"

"Yes, sir, I did," Rogue said, fighting to not start grinding her teeth together. Obviously, the man wasn't listening to a word she was saying. Belatedly, she realized he was drunk. And from the smell of his breath, he'd been drinking stronger stuff than the grade-D champagne. "And he's not a _punk_. If you'd talked with him at all tonight, you'd know that."

"So, you are _living_ with him, am I understanding that right?"

This time, Roisin sighed aloud, exasperated. "Yes, that is what I am saying—"

To her surprise, Mr. Straub's pudgy hand darted out and seized her left wrist, lifting it to his eyes. Her ringless hand turned even whiter when his grip clenched on her wrist, cutting off the flow of blood to her hand and fingers.

"Bad enough that you're not married to him, however low he is," he growled quietly into her startled face, "but that you're not even _engaged_ and you're _living_ with him… Ms. Byrne, I am not in the habit of employing loose women in my law office."

Her temper rose. "I am _not _a l—" she began indignantly, her voice getting louder.

Mr. Straub shifted his grip from her wrist to the soft part of her elbow, his grip crushing exactly against the veins there. He pulled her outside of the doors. "I also," he said icily, once the doors closed behind them, "detest public displays of temper, so we will talk out here. Now, as I said, I pride myself on keeping a _decent_ staff of people around me. Now, not only have you dirtied my office, bringing your—your _ways _amongst the good people I've retained, but now you propose to sneak off first chance you get. You were hoping I wouldn't find out about what kind of a person you really were, weren't you? I should have known that first day, when you had the utter gall to show up to the office wearing _pants_."

Rogue could only gape at him in astonishment. _I do not be_lieve_ what I am hearing,_ she thought. _But if he doesn't let go of my arm soon, I won't be able to use it…_

He took a step toward her, and she backed up, against a wall—_Of course. Shit shit shit! _She noticed the door they had come out of crack open the tiniest bit, as though a wind had moved it, but to her aggravation it stopped moving. _Shit. I'd hoped that was someone coming out here, but I guess it was just the draught moving the door. Damnit!_

Mr. Straub used her second's distraction to grab her other arm—again, at the elbow, both hands safely shielded from her skin by the sleeves of her dress. _Damn! And just when my power would have been _useful _for something…_

He snuck a glance at the door she had been staring at, but seeing that the doors were still closed, turned his attention back to her. "Now, I'll tell you what your options are…" He licked his lips, beady eyes glittering. "Option A is to go off with him as planned, in which case I am going to find that some money entrusted to you has gone missing, let's say, oh, fifteen thousand. That's enough for a grand larceny felony charge, prison time, the whole bit. And for him, too, as an accomplice, of course."

_Holy crap. He does not leave any button un-pushed when it comes to blackmailing, does he?_ Roisin thought angrily to herself, pondering how best to get out of here and get Remy without making too much of a scene. Or how to get Remy out here so they could make a fast getaway if she _did_ make a big scene… _Well, they always say to keep the aggressor talking, right?_

"So, what's Option B?"

"Option B, my dear Ms. Byrne, is to make room in your bedroom schedule for one more client. I can promise you better pay than half a flophouse-apartment's rent, or whatever _he's _paying you." His grip on her elbows tightened, and he began to lean in to her.

She responded by raking one of her heels down his shin and grinding the point of the heel into the top of his foot. She felt something _crack,_ and hoped it was his foot. He jerked back, muffling a curse, and let one of her arms go. She quickly grabbed for his own hand, intending to drain the blackmailing bastard dry, and damn the consequences. Before she could, however, a smooth voice came from the wide-open doorway, where Remy and the Messrs. Walker were standing, staff gathered around behind them. The pair of lawyers did not look amused. Remy, on the other hand, was smirking.

"Actually, she happens to be priceless, so I t'ink you'd have a hard time topping _that_ cost," he said to Mr. Straub as he calmly walked over and slid an arm around 'Roisin'. "Most days, I can barely understand where I've earned de right to be wit' her myself. But having earned dat right—" He stopped speaking, and his long-fingers reached out, and gripped Mr. Straub's hand, which still had hold of her arm. Apparently Remy hit a few (thousand) nerves in Straub's hand, for he immediately gasped and went white-faced when Remy's hand touched him. _Or maybe he's charging up his watch, or something,_ Rogue considered, not much caring if Remy _did_ blow his hand to pieces, merely content to have his comforting arm round her, and have him aid her defense.

"Now," Remy said conversationally, "You'll let go of her arm, _non? _Otherwise, I'd have to let _her—_and de other ladies inside—go after you, and I t'ink you'll find me to be the better _option._" He mocked Mr. Straub's speech, insolence in his tone.

Mr. Straub's hand fell slack, and Rogue flinched and fought not to swear aloud as pins and needles started stabbing her arm all over from the elbow down. Remy drew her gently away from him, and allowed Mr. Walker and Mr. Walker to confront him. Both lawyers looked severely perturbed, not to mention angry as hell. The elder Mr. Walker took out his cell phone and called the police, while the younger Mr. Walker calmly had Mr. Straub sit in a chair, and waved the restaurant's manager over. With a few brief words, he explained the situation to the man, who looked more like a bouncer than a manager—in this case, a very good thing. The manager looked at Straub, then at Roisin, and fixed an angry scowl on Straub. Without looking away from the man, he pulled over another chair, and sat knee-to-knee with him.

"I think that if Mr. Straub moves, he's dead meat," she commented to Remy, who was peering at her concernedly.

"Are you all right, _chere?_ Sorry to have taken so long to get out here, but when de ladies inside told me you'd come out here with that _batard_, I figured it would be a good idea to get the good bosses over here too. Once we saw what was going on, they had me wait a moment to make sure they could nail him on blackmail charges, but the second they could they let me loose. Of course, you could have taken him yourself, but I'd hate to see de property damage bills."

She snorted, amused in spite of herself. "Very funny, Cajun. Do we have to stay? I've really had enough of this place…" She rubbed her arm, which was still half-numbed.

His face changed to one of concern. "I'm afraid you'll probably have to give a statement to de police, _ma chere._ Think you're up to it? I can 'accidentally' take you out of here, not realizin', o'course, in my naïveté, that you _do_ need to talk to the cops…" he offered.

"Nah, it's okay, so long as we don't have to stay long." She shivered. "I'm just… I'm really, really _tired_, Re—Raoul." She sighed. "And now I'm acting like a whiny brat. Sorry."

"_Non_, not bratty at all," he reassured her, removing his suit jacket and draping it around her shoulders. "Let's go sit down, and wait for the cops, hmm?"

"Seems like a good idea, anyway…" She blew out her breath. "I'm getting sick o' seeing the boys in blue, though…"

"Yeah, me too."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Thankfully, they were able to leave within the hour, although there was a frightening moment when one of the cops noticed that Remy had a tattoo—it was somewhat visible through the shirt he wore beneath the suit coat, which, of course, was still around Roisin's shoulders. The cop _said_ he was only asking because there had been a recent increase in gang activity, but…

Following that, they left as soon as they could, leaving the rest of the staff of Walker & Walker discussing the incident—and it was oh-so-surprising to find out how many of other employees had been blackmailed in a similar fashion by Mr. Straub throughout the years.

While on the ride back to the apartment, Rogue sighed, then chuckled tiredly to herself. Remy glanced at her in surprise, watching the yellow streetlamps' light flicker across her face. "What's so funny, _cherie?" _

"Well, I really can't see how tomorrow can be much worse than tonight was… I was thinking that even holiday shopping would be easier. Even shopping with _Kitty_ would be easier." She abruptly fell silent. Remy's empathic sense picked up her quiet sadness; he leaned over 'til his shoulder bumped her own.

"Maybe you'll see dem again, chere… No real reason you couldn't call or visit…" His voice trailed off uncertainly.

She sighed again, and turned pain-shadowed eyes toward him, the seething emotion apparent even in the cab's dim interior. "No. Right now, I couldn't. I just…" She swallowed, shoulders hunching, her voice lowering, and continued, "I couldn't bear to see what I'm most scared of being really _really _true, and not just sort-of true—that they might not want me anymore, and that they deliberately abandoned me to Trask. And maybe they didn't know exactly what was going on in there, maybe they thought I was all right, but they _still_ should have tried harder to get me out of there, just because I _was_ trapped with no way out. Or maybe I really was that much of a burden, of a danger to them…"

"You're no burden, and it's not like any of _dem _never attracted any danger their way, or was a danger themselves—what about that kid who shot spikes out when he sneezed?" He smirked, widened his eyes comic-suggestively. "B'sides, a dangerous _femme_'s a sexy _femme_."

She snickered quietly, allowing the red-eyed man to cheer her, despite her own tendency to be despondent. Then she said quietly, "Thank you for helping me tonight, Remy."

"Well, de ol' damsel-in-distress look suits you now and again, _chere,_" he replied easily.

She shook her head, auburn-and-white curls sliding across her shoulders. "I meant what you _said_."

For the second time that week, Remy was caught without a clue—_First I have no clue about gift-buying, now I can't understand what she's talking about! How does she _do_ it?_

"Huh?" He asked, intelligently.

Suddenly, she shyly smiled at him. "When you said I was priceless." She lowered her gaze for a second, then met his eyes with her own. "When–he—was intimating that I was your whore, and because I already knew what he thinks _your_ social status is, I couldn't help but wonder, for a minute—a _second_!—whether I was really that low—I mean, first I'm captured and used as a glorified lab rat, then my friends and what semblance of a family I had left me to rot, and finally I have a creepy old guy assuming I should be _grateful _he was offering enough per lay that I could afford to live on my own… And I only wondered about it for a second, but that I _could _even take that seriously for that long made me _really_ think—and then you come like some shining angel of God saying 'she is priceless' and in an _instant_ I saw how much of an idiot I was being. Thanks for the verbal smack upside the head."

"You'll get more than a _verbal_ smack upside the head if I find out you've been t'inking dose thoughts again, _chere._" He warned. "It's just unhealthy, for you _and_ whoever's around you. B'lieve me, I know."

Rogue smiled at him. "I know. But—still, give me a whack when I need one, huh?"

"Return de favor, it's a deal." He agreed.

At that moment, the cab pulled up beside the curb in front of their apartment. They got out, paid the driver, and cautiously entered the front door, checking for intruders as always. Once it was ascertained that they were, indeed, the only people inside, they both went upstairs and changed out of their soiree finery. Both arrived back in the kitchen in sweats, warm, fuzzy socks, and loose, comfortable sweatshirts (an article of clothing Rogue would never have pegged Remy for owning. Perhaps the Feds got it for him).

"Movie?" Remy offered, gesturing toward the living room. "I'll get it set up and the popcorn ready."

"I'll make the hot cocoa," Rogue offered, and Remy grinned his lazy smile at her, black-and-red eyes friendly and relaxed at her improved mood.

All in all, they both found the end of the evening to be far more pleasant than the beginning, and again, Rogue had only pleasant dreams throughout the night.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Review Replies:**

**Ishandahalf**— So glad you're still reading this thing, since I've had to take eternities to write and post… Did you really squeal at the Author Alert? I'm flattered :) yes, they 'need to get on the trolley, and soon,' but not for a while. (BTW, are you from SF? That's an interesting turn of phrase you've got there.) so, here, more, MORE chapter!

**simba317—**Congrats! You officially wrote me the longest review so far! Yyyyyeah, you say, "3 chappies have been done." Unfortunately those were the ones that got eaten by the computer, along with my story plotplan. And by the time I realized my work'd been erased, I couldn't remember exactly what went on. Bah. Technology. Anyway, keep reading (and reviewing!) please!

**Iwant2goFAST—**Ok, so what's with everyone referring to me as 'dude' this chapter…? Oh, and please don't squish the Remy, I still need to use him.

**Sweety8587—**Hello to all four of you! May I ask, what you meant by "there be an easiness in here" in reference to the chapter? Thanks. Juuust curious. Keep reading!

**bored247—**Heck no she's not contacting the mansion… and soon she'll have a Real Serious Reason not to. Heh heh heh… Thanks for the review!

**Nettlez—**Don't worry, I stopped the last chapter where I did, but that let me start THIS one where _it_ did. It all works out in the end… Thanks for reading!

**tinuviel-telcontar—**Pretty work, is it? I suppose. Then, you don't get to see the unpretty sight of me cursing out my computer. And, no, a torc is nothing like an orc. Google "torc" and "Tara" or "torc" and "laTene." You should find some pics. I've been _thinking_about putting the Bhood and/or Acolytes in, but I've already taken Remy from the Acolytes and I'm not sure either group will fit in to the plot. We'll see. And, no, I've no idea why your pen name always has a hyphen instead of an underscore, unless you accidentally registered the wrong username? Ask the site mods.

**sheisbeautiful-sheisnotme—**LOL. _First_ you tell yourself she's still alive. _Then_ you remind yourself, 'fictional.' Hmm. If you're that susceptible to taking blatant fiction as truth, do NOT NOT NOT read the daVinci Code :) Ok?

**Lucy Wood**—Excellent Review with Excellent… uh, Words! (yeah. Uhm, let's just pretend that worked. Ok?) Thanks for reading!

**Shaishe**—Good God. You've got time to read my growing behemoth TWICE? I have to re-read it to write, and I find time in short supply--! Thanks for reading!

**Canuck**—Well I'm happy to have made Bernard happy with the snow. The good, clean snow that is… Ohio gets a fair amount of snow, about as much as me beloved Pennsylvania, perhaps a little less. Oh, I'm so glad that I managed to turn that cliché round all right. Happiness! And, here, in this chapter, there are your Roisin- and Raoul-vs.-"Mr.-Who's-That-Long-Haired-Punk." Two for one. Woot! And another fan of the humming in German arises. As far as the church thing—well, it makes sense. People who go through immensely difficult times almost always begin some sort of religious exploration after… Besides, I'm tongue-in-cheek PC; but if it's necessary the characters I write need to have some non-PC characteristics, by God they're going to have them! I mean, stealing isn't exactly PC, but no-one's kicking up a fuss about Remy being a Thief. (Of course, no-one is kicking up a fuss at ALL about them going to church, either, so I figure I can chill.) And, yes, I agree, people who label all Muslims as terrorists are idiots, but the problem is the other side of the coin: simple fact that most of the major terrorist organizations working and active in the world right now happen to be populated with Muslims… However, such is the way in which stereotypes are born. And some stereotypes are good—really… Just because one is anti-stereotype doesn't mean one ought to give the guy waving the gun in the bank the benefit of the doubt… it's a stereotype of sorts, but chances are the guy waving the gun around really _is_ a bank robber. –ok, minor tangent over.—Thanks for reading!

**Eissalande—**Yay! Interest has been maintained in spite of long update lags. Thanks for reading!

**kyo-kitty**—Lol. Soo not an accident you say. Perhaps you're right. Maaaaybe.

**Cat2fat900—**Squirrel is still OK. LOL Did you really anticipate Remy getting her jewelry? Lol. And yes poor Rogue—but poor Remy too, having to take care of her ALL the time. Liking someone doesn't mean you don't get weary sometimes, you know… Anyway, thanks for reading, please keep reviewing!

**Tempting Sweet Poison—**So, what's _your_ poison of choice? Like the screenname. Glad you're adoring, think it's unique & fun, please keep reading! (Muahahaha, another one brainwa—) Oh, you're still here? Pretend you didn't read that. Just read this (veeeery slooooowly…. You are feeling sleeeeepyyyyyy… You will obeyyyyyy…): Please read & review!

**sakura5tar—**YAY! A review! Ahh, the wonders of having cool clothes to describe… What's A/W? Unfamiliar with that abbreviation… They'll get to N'Orleans soon enough, and yes, we'll visit the Institute for Christmas. (Haha--That sounds like a charity for the insane: "Let's visit the Institute people for Xmas!") And thanks for the luck with the new job—it's going well, but taking up much time. Ah well. Thanks for reading!

**FluidDegree**—Hey, they DID go with their feelings. Remy kissed her back for a second, then the both got embarrassed big-time. Haven't you ever had something like that happen to you? Yeah, par-tay writing is giving me headaches, I'm working on it though. Thanks for your review!

**Crazed Fuzzle—**Actually I have hordes of reviewers raving about the kiss detail only to say that was NO accident! But it was… she didn't exactly INTEND to kiss him on the lips… but hey, what do I know, I'm just a lowly Author! And totally, that "I love you/be with you forever/marry/have10,000,000kids" thing would have been just WRONG and fake and forced feeling with Rogue and Remy. Thanks for your wonderfully in-depth review, please do so again! Which also means you have to keep reading. :)

**PhantomPunkEvo**—awww thanks. Best Romy EVER? I doubt that verrrrrra much, but thanks for the thought! Please keep reading and reviewing!

**Ladyflame13**—Yeah! Another review! Thanks for it--!

**Eileen Blazer—**Oh, you already GOT your reply in e-mail. But you haven't seen the dress yet. I'll see if I can't scrape up a pic somewhere. But FIRST—YOU have to update! Ttys.

**Lady Godiva**—Yeah, I was trying for cuteness for once. Glad my plot worked! The fake names was because there was a lot of necessary referencing to the fake names, and I didn't want to confuse the readers or myself switching back and forth and back again. And as far as the would they want to keep their real names—remember, "Rogue" is NOT Rogue's real name. She's a namechanger already… so, makes sense to me at least. Let me know what you think. Anyway, see "Query" in the chapter header. Thanks for reading!

**Marie**— Oh, don't feel bad. Just go back and review every single chapter! Or, failing that, just keep reading and reviewing! Thanks for doing so now.

**Jennifer—**Well, I'd imagine you're the only person who said "please update soon" who updated late enough for it to be "soon." (Did that make sense?) Anyway, thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think about This Topic or That Plot Twist in your reviews!

**Koneko-Firefly—**I looked up the names by doing word searches and translations from online translators… Basically I started with the English meaning and decided what language, and hit the translate button. Besides, there are TONS of names that seem to be from one heritage that are really from an entirely different one… So "Rossi" is, in this case, French. (Again, if you need a reason, Because I Said So, That's Why will have to suffice :) ). Thanks for reading—keep reviewing!


	12. “Through wood and dale the sacred river

In case any of you'd like to read it, I've started a Hallowe'en-esque Romy story, _Black is the Color,_ accessible through my fanfiction. net page, http/www. This is the same thing that in my –last- Author's Note I said would be a one-off? Yeah, I was SO kidding myself. I've never written a one-off in my life! At least, not that I'm aware of. If you know otherwise, please let me know.

Eileen—just 'cos you asked, there's a bit in here Just For You (but the rest of you go ahead and enjoy it, too :) ).

Starts off a little sad at the X-mansion, but less sad than the last time we saw them all… then, back to the Romy action!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 12: "Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,"

Kitty Pryde really hated living in a mansion sometimes. She had been searching it for an hour, now, looking for Kurt, but the place was so big that when someone made up his mind to hide, he could _hide_. Especially if he had the ability to teleport when he heard someone coming… fortunately for her, sort of, Kurt was so wrapped up in his sadness that he didn't hear her approach. Of course, it helped that she could phase through any objects—like the door—and make no sound. She finally saw him, perched on the balcony of an empty room, starting sightlessly out across the grounds. His sadness was obvious; his tail, his shoulders, even his fur drooped.

"Kurt?" She said softly to his back. For a moment, he didn't move, then twisted a tear-streaked face around to see her. "Oh, Kurt… I know…" She crossed to him then, and hugged him tightly.

"I'm really getting better, most of the time I don't _miss _her so much, it doesn't hurt at all to think of her usually, but on a day like today…" Kurt sighed. "She vould be eighteen today, Kitty…" he said miserably. "Eighteen. She had so many things she wanted to do when she turned eighteen… The first thing, she said, was to get a new drivers' license so she didn't have the same picture she had when she was fifteen… She planned to visit Caldecott again, did you know that? She wanted to see if almost-five years away had changed anything there. She wanted to make her peace with Irene. She wanted—" he choked out a watery laugh "—she wanted to steal Logan's motorcycle for a few hours, because he just _might_ let her get away with it, for her birthday. And now she won't. She won't do any of those things. She'll never get control over her powers, like she promised herself she'd do; she'll never go to college or _anything._ I miss her so much, sometimes."

Kitty was crying, too. "I know, Kurt. And I'm sad she'll never get married—she _did_ want to get married someday, did you know _that_? She told me that once. I'm sad she'll never again, like, stand up to the rest of you guys about Lance and me; I'm sad she'll never make us that special hot chocolate she used to make around Christmas. I miss her too."

_As do I, children,_ they heard Professor X's voice in their heads. _But Rogue, as isolated and sad as she could be, _never _wanted anyone else to feel that way—especially not for them to be sad over her. Because of that, and in memoriam of her, we are having a final birthday party for Rogue, so that we remember her for her wonderful inner qualities, not the sad, spiky exterior she showed the outside world. I'm asking everyone to come up with one nice thing Rogue did for them, something the others might not know about, so that we remember her as she truly _was,_ not just as she appeared to be._

The 'feel' of Professor X left their minds, and Kitty and Kurt looked soberly at each other for a moment, then, slowly, began to smile. "That sounds nice," Kitty said. "Doesn't it?"

_"Ja._ The Professor is right." Kurt said resolutely, lifting his head and determinedly wiping his tears away. "Rogue wouldn't want us to waste our lives being sad over her; she'd want us to get on with our lives. Let's go put our heads together and come up with some really great Rogue stories, huh?"

Kitty smiled at him. "Sounds like a great idea."

In his office, Professor X leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed. He'd heard the tenor of Kurt and Kitty's thoughts, of course—they were along the same lines as everyone else's thoughts today, once everyone had realized it would have been Rogue's birthday. Echoing the teens' thoughts, he thought to himself, _I'm sorry we'll never get to see what heights you might have risen to, Rogue. If you could have controlled your powers, you could have been one of the most powerful mutants on the face of the Earth. I failed you in that endeavor, as I failed to have my X-Men rescue you, and I'm sorry. You were such a bright young woman, with such potential and promise… Now, you are only a very, very dear memory. I promise you, and I hope I can keep _this_ promise at least; I will never let another of my students down as I feel that I let you down while you were alive. I feel especially guilty since I did not realize, until I really thought about it, how much you did for _me_ even while I was unable to help you. _

_So we shall try to make this birthday a good celebration for you, Rogue… I hope you're watching over us._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next morning, nearly three states away, unaware of the turmoil her birthday yesterday had caused her former family, Rogue awoke in an unusual state: Refreshed, relaxed, and happy. The morning sunlight was golden, and reflected the snow outside beautifully. The apartment was warm, a nice contrast to the winter day outside. She lay there for a moment, contented, not thinking anything in particular, then stretched, rose, and padded downstairs to get the morning's coffee ready. About fifteen minutes later, Remy dragged down, his hair tangled and mussed from sleep. She watched as he collected a coffee mug, filled it, and slid onto the stool across the counter from her. She watched him carefully, waiting for the prefect time to make her comment.

"So," she said casually, chin in her hand, as he lifted the steaming mug to his lips and took a long drink, "the women from the office last night wanted to know how wild in bed you are, Cajun." With her other hand she stirred her own coffee, not taking her eyes off of his face.

His eyes popped wide open over the mug, and his cheeks swelled suddenly as he coughed with his mouth closed, nearly choking on the drink. With some difficulty he swallowed, putting the mug securely on the counter, and still coughing, asked, "Dey were _what?"_

She fixed him with a Cheshire cat grin. "Ya heard me, Cajun."

"Dose office women were a bad influence on you, _chere,"_ he scolded with a smile, pointing his spoon at her. "You weren't dis mean before you started working wit' dem."

She grinned back at him, sipping her coffee. She waited 'til he was just taking another sip, and said, "So. A_re_ you wild in bed?"

This time, he did snort his coffee out his nose and mock glared at her. "Chere, y' better get dat smart ass o' yours out o' dis kitchen, or I'm not r'sponsible for my actions." He warned, and laughing, she went upstairs to shower and change.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A week later, they were at the local mall, ostensibly buying items for their move to New Orleans in a few months. In reality, Rogue was still searching for a Christmas present for Remy, and he was pretending not to notice—_and_ pretending not to drop any hints. Seeing her eyes go back to a certain store several times, he excused himself to the restroom so she could buy whatever-it-was without him.

When he got back to the store, she was nowhere to be found. Trying not to panic, he calmly asked the store clerk if he'd seen…? Why, yes, he had, and the pretty woman with the unusual hair had left just a moment ago, with a man in a trenchcoat and spiky hair…

He thanked the clerk, turned on one heel, and bolted out of the store, looking for a trenchcoat amongst the pre-Christmas shopping crowds. He couldn't see any trenchcoat… Then common sense reasserted itself, and he wanted to smack himself in the head for his stupidity. His empathic sense; if he knew someone's empathic 'feel' well enough, he could use it to find that person, sort of like emotional radar. After spending _how_ much time with her, as well as aiding her in controlling her powers, if he didn't know _her_ empathic signature, he didn't know his own.

He paused in the mall's crowded hallway, and let his empathic sense flow out over the crowd. He skillfully ignored all the shopping-related anxiety, and boy wasn't _that_ woman pissed about the sale she'd missed, and that kid was about to throw a screaming fit, and –

There, to his left, down the way a bit. His eyes went where the sense told him to look, and there, for an instant, he caught a glimpse of auburn-and-white hair, and eyes of an intense gray-green.

An instant's glimpse was enough; not for nothing was he Jean-Luc LeBeau's son. He'd followed less distinctive people through worse crowds than this while on no sleep for five days. And those less distinctive people weren't half so important to him… He caught up with them in a few moments, just in time for the spiky-haired guy—who had a loose grip on Rogue's arm—to greet a petite red-haired woman, who flashed an—FBI badge?—at Rogue as the pair approached her.

"—listen, I really don't think I can talk to you," Rogue was saying to the pair, as he approached the group; she was facing the direction he was approaching, which put the agents' backs to him. Her eyes flicked over him, but did not stop on him. She gave no indication that she recognized anyone in the crowd. _Smart, chere._

"Look, we know there's something…weird…going on with you and that guy," the spiky-haired guy said. "Just tell us what it is, I promise I'll believe you."

"Even if I told you there's some weird paramilitary psychotic conspiracy to capture people believed to be mutants and perform freakish experiments on them?" Rogue asked, so sarcastically it should have etched the floor beneath them.

"Weird conspiracies and freakish experimentation are his specialty," the redhead said dryly. "If he says he'll believe you, _he'll believe you._"

"But we really want to talk to your friend, too," the man said. "Any idea where we can find him?"

"How 'bout right behind you, _homme?"_ Remy said, putting the muzzle of his gun right against the guy's back. He froze as the redhead flinched around, moving to draw her own piece, but Remy waved his free hand at her, warning her not to try it. "Look, I don't want to be shooting _anyone,_ but you two have gone and walked off with de _femme,_ here, and, well, she's got de bus passes. What is it you want?"

The redhead very carefully reached into her pocket, keeping her gun in Remy's sight as she pulled out a wallet with an ID card that was becoming all too familiar to the Cajun; it read "Dana Scully". _Pretty soon I'll be able to forge m' own, seen so many genuine articles._ "My name is Fox Mulder," the man said over his shoulder. "I'm an agent of the—"

"FBI, I know, so what else is new? You going to let de _femme_ go?"

"We're not keeping her," the redhead said, sounding surprised. "We really did just want to talk to her, but once _he_ begins asking questions, people usually start getting upset. We didn't want to cause a panic in the middle of a crowded shopping mall."

"You're not keeping her? Oh." Remy dropped the gun back into the pocket of his duster, where it was still within easy reach, and came around the Mulder guy to stand beside Rogue. "Sorry 'bout the gun, den, _homme."_

Rogue looked from one tense face to another, rolled her eyes, and said, "Why don't we all go get a cup of coffee instead o' standing here like a bunch of lunatics? We're attracting attention."

Scully glanced around and nodded. "Good point. Let's go and quit being such obvious Federal agents… We're not exactly supposed to be here, you know…" She gave Mulder a wry look.

"What, you're not supposed to talk to people in the Witness Protection Program?" Rogue asked, and the agents stared in faint horror at her and Remy.

"You're in the Program? Shit." Mulder muttered to himself.

"Ya didn't know? Don't you people talk to each other?" Rogue asked, exasperated. "Great. Now I really need that coffee."

"Me, too." Scully said, looking chagrined. "OK. We're going to pretend you did _not_ just tell us that, and go on from there, all right?"

Rogue and Remy exchanged a quick glance. She lifted her eyebrows; he shrugged in reply. "Sure." He said. "But you're buying the coffee."

"Deal," Mulder said gratefully, and the odd quartet moved off toward the food court.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Well, that was the _strangest_ cup of coffee I've ever had in my life," Rogue commented later, as they entered their apartment. The agents had dropped them off a few minutes earlier.

"Sure was," Remy agreed. "Who knew the Federal Government spent money for people to investigate t'ings that go bump in de night?"

"Shoulda seen it coming, actually," Rogue mused. "But still—sending a couple of FBI agents to question a couple of nobodies about whether there are ghosts in the house they're living in? Isn't that a waste of tax dollars?"

"Actually, I think it's de federal budget their salary comes from," Remy mused out loud. "But anyway. What are you making for dinner?"

"It's your turn, Cajun."

"No, it's not."

"Sure is."

"_Non!_"

"_Oui_," she mocked him, "and it had better be good!" Impudently, she stuck her tongue out at him, and headed for the stairs before he could start chasing her.

"_Chere,_ you're asking for trouble." He called up the stairs. "But I'll make de dinner anyway. Remember—you just put me in charge of your food tonight!" He laughed maniacally as he got the pans out.

Upstairs, Rogue cut herself off mid-giggle as she realized that she had, indeed, put him in charge of whatever she was going to eat tonight. "Oh boy," she muttered to herself. "I just hope he isn't _too_ mean, lacing my dinner with Tabasco sauce… I did ask for it."

Later that night, she was obliged to eat nearly an entire loaf of bread to cool her burning mouth and throat.

_That's the last time I make some smart comment right before dinner,_ she promised herself before she went to sleep. _The last time._

_Unless it's an opportunity I can't pass up…_ The thought made her smile, and she drifted off.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

**Review Replies:**

**Ishandahalf— **Yes, Mr. Straub is a dastard (yes that's really a word!), and he proved it! And glad my Remy made you squeal. G Yeah… Rogue isn't her own name either, and she wouldn't necessarily stick –exactly- with what the Feds picked for her, but something similar… really. It's all justified and makes sense and all (at least I think so!). So… I'll think about keeping her 'rogue'…haven't made my final decision yet.

**sakura5tar—**Happy you're liking this so much! Please keep reading!

**Nettlez—**LOL. That's two reviewers in a row who were like, "Yay Remy Knight in Shining" something. :)

**bored247—**There will be a good reason for her to not contact the mansion (besides the obvious) soon, and in fact, you all already know it! Muahahahhaaa. Keep reading!

**chicita—**No, I wasn't lost… just busy… but here's another chapter. :)

**Canuck—**your birthday? Wow. I've got innately good timing… :) Glad you liked the car-conversation… I'm happy my characters' growth and change makes sense (to someone anyway…) Thanks for reading!

**Sweety8587—**Ahh… the 'easiness' between our couple is going to get shaken in a bit… muhahaha. That's all the warning you're getting!

**A.M.bookworm247—**Happiness brings you to the verge of tears? Uhm? (and, except for my fic? LOL.) Ooh. Such nice words; balanced, superb… (sing-songs:)Have you been reading your thesaurus? Oh, and no worries about a Mary-Sue… if it were one of those, everyone would run screaming :) And, hey! You can learn from fanfic… See, I don't write fanfic just to write what _I'd_ like to see happen, I write it to explore how people interact when you can play with the rules (like Alphabet Organizations and mutants). Thanks for reading, please do continue!

**FluidDegree—**Aaach, Nope. Sorry. They're not hopping into bed anytime soon… If you've ever been through a traumatic situation, I don't care how large your attachment to someone is, the _last_ thing you want to do is shift things in such a big way. If you want to see 'em hopping into bed (metaphysically at least), go read _Black is the Color._ :) Shameless plug!

**sheisbeautiful-sheisnotme—**ok! One person who thinks the interchanged names are OK! Woot…. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Lucy Wood—**Thanks for reading!

**Les723— **Thanks for reading!

**Shaishe—**Thanks for reading!

**Ladyflame13—**Thanks for reading!

**fallen214—**Thanks for reading!

**Iwant2goFAST—** You sing for Disney? How'd you get into that? Me, I'm trying out for an exclusive local chamber group… I think I'll be the youngest by about 15 years if I make it in… Here's hoping they need a coloratura soprano! Anyway, thanks for reading & reviewing!

**Marie—**You know you can put me on Author Alert if you have a ff. net account…? Just so you don't have to check and check and check if some story you like has been updated… Thanks for reading!

**enchantedlight—** Thanks for reading!

**Cat2fat900—**Working on the Romyness… it's coming… slowly :) Thanks for reading!

**Tenshi no Yami—**Who's your friend? I'll give him/her a shoutout for recommending my fic to you! "Angel of Darkness," is that what your name means?

**DeadSparrow—**I likes me Remy. :) Thanks for reading!

**sunspotmisery—**Ahh always glad to have the nuances picked up on… that Remy totally gave Rogue and the ladies credit for being able to wipe the floor with Straub, but then they'd get their pretty dresses dirty… Thanks for reading!

**Eissalande—**Well, I highly hope your interest doesn't lag! Thanks for reading!


	13. “So twice five miles of fertile ground”

Hey there… sorry I've been gone, my computer was out of reach for a while…

As for all of the people who flipped out/got worked up a bit over the Mulder/Scully cameo, I'd advise that you wait and see before you go nutso and get all POed at me for throwing 'random' stuff in. Chill, I'm not POed... But... After 12 chapters, don't you know yet that I almost _never _put things in a fic that are superfluous? True, the FBI agents didn't _have_ to be Mulder and Scully, but I couldn't resist the temptation since I needed some Feebies anyway, and besides, I promised to try and get a Mulder cameo in somewhere.

Also, since Christmas _is_ at its source and heart a religious holiday, and this is the Christmas chapter, I'm not going to apologize for putting mentions of God/church/religion/whatever in this chapter. You've been 'warned,' and it's not like the religion angle is new… after all, in most canon, Kurt ends up a priest: ) Plus it's the warm fuzzies and deep introspection that Christmas lends itself to anyway. Plus it makes this cuter.

Hey, anyone know how to get another font besides Times New Roman to show up here? And how to get tabbed indents to 'take'? I'm not usually this idiotic about computer stuff...

Hmmm, what else? Oh, yeah. Enjoy!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 13: "So twice five miles of fertile ground"

It was a couple of weeks later—how time flies when you're not working anymore!—and Christmas was the next day. Appropriately, they'd had a last huge snowfall a few days before. The streets and sidewalks were all clear of snow by now, but everything else was still covered in a thick, clean, white blanket that muffled sound and made the stars seem brighter against the dark midwinter sky. The little town was now entirely decorated for the various winter holidays, strings of lights crisscrossed the few main intersections of the town, and, as everywhere, some of the residents went overboard in their zeal for adorning their homes for the season.

Rogue leaned her head around the kitchen doorframe. "Did I just hear sirens again, Cajun?"

"It's de fire trucks for the Smiths' house again, _chere_," Remy replied, from where he sat peering out the window at the sparse traffic. Following the snowstorm, the roads were very icy, so it proved to be a blessing that he had to walk to work anyway. He'd gotten today, the next, and the day after off of work, however, which explained why he was lounging on the couch watching TV and waiting for Rogue to bring him some cocoa, instead of trudging back from work through ice and snow.

"Again?" Rogue shook her head, auburn and silver curls trembling with the movement. "Isn't that the third time in two weeks?"

"Yep. You'd t'ink dey'd learn that the glowing nine foot tall Santa is a fire hazard by now…" Remy mused aloud, then shrugged and turned his attention to the steaming mug that was being held in front of his nose. "Why thank y', _chere._ Much appreciated." He winked one of his distinctive eyes at her, and she grinned back reflexively. "So…" he said. "We're going to church at midnight? Why again, _chere_?"

"Oh, just that it's supposed to be a really great thing, to be at church _the minute_ it's Christmas Day. Plus the prayers and things are different from the ones in the daytime, they're supposed to be really beautiful, something special. And I want this Christmas to be special…" Her eyes grew distant for a second, and Remy gripped her wrist reassuringly for a second. She smiled at him then, only the faintest hint of sadness in it, and said, "This Christmas _will _be special, I know it."

"O' course it will, _chere_. We'll make sure of it."

Rogue glanced at her watch. "Well, I'd better go get dressed, or we'll be late." At his questioning glance, she explained, "If it's all right, I'd like to get there just a little early, maybe fifteen minutes or so?"

"Sure, chere. Just let me know when."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

An hour later, Remy was sitting in a pew in the dark, candle-lit church, surprised at how many people were attending this late at night. _When she's right, she's right,_ he mused to himself, absorbing the hush and utter stillness of the church, so different from the quiet, reverent, but definite _noise_ of Sunday mornings. _Where did de femme go?_ He wondered to himself, feeling the space beside him nervously. Rogue had excused herself to the ladies' room nearly ten minutes ago, and it was nearly midnight. _Maybe dere's a line,_ he thought. He wasn't particularly worried that anything had happened to her, however; he just didn't want her to miss anything, since she'd been so gung-ho to come at this time.

This church was truly a _safe_ place, a real sanctuary, in more than just the holy sense. Those who intended harm seemed to simply pass the great oaken doors by, while those who needed help or shelter always seemed to find their ways indoors and to kindly people. While the large doors were kept locked when the church was not in use, there was a side door always left unlocked; that door was more sheltered from the elements, was far easier to open than one of the tree-on-hinges main doors, and afforded a glimpse of the parish house, so that someone who needed more human help could see where to go for it.

Just now, the interior of the church was lit by nothing more than candlelight (save one electric light by the door, so no one slipped on the puddles left by melting snow). White candles faintly illuminated the altar and ringed the edges of the church, cleverly placed to catch the stained glass images, statues, and carvings, making the church seem even more full than it was, but it was a friendly feeling of fullness. The images gave the sense that they were protectively wrapping round the congregation, keeping all within from harm.

The stillness settled down on those within the church, and Remy felt a sense of peace and quietness he hadn't known in more than a year come over him; his shoulders relaxed from their customary tenseness for a moment, and he silently offered a prayer of thanks for that moment.

Then, a moment came when the sanctuary was utterly quiet, and the people within exuded a sense of a wordless waiting; they truly were having their Christmas honestly, celebrating their God entering their world as one of themselves. _Small town, simple people… deep faith,_ Remy mused to himself. _Some things about small towns I can't stand… but this is nice._

Music then, softly, gently, but intensely, from what Remy rationally knew to be the choir loft, above and behind him. But the shifting, comforting candlelight, the sense of anticipation, the _quiet_ combined to make it seem as though the music was falling like gentle soothing rain from the rafters. Then, perfectly in tone with the warm spinning sound of the organ, came an angelic voice. Rogue. _His_ angel.

"O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining! It is the night of our dear Saviour's birth. …"

Remy took a deep breath in through his nose, and exhaled it as slowly through his mouth, then dared a peek over his shoulder at her. The green she wore suited her beautifully, but in the dim interior one could only see the pale face, the shining eyes, and the gleaming white hair. _She _looks_ like un ange,_ Remy thought in amazement, carried aloft with her voice—which was astonishingly good, for how little time she'd had lessons. He noticed several other people also sneaking glances at the unexpected singer, all of them breaking 'church protocol' as surely as Remy was.

"My goodness," an older gentleman murmured to Remy, as he turned to look. "Her phrasing is exquisite. Why haven't we heard her sing before?" He sounded, amusingly, almost put out; then he turned to face the front, his eyes closing as he absorbed the sound.

_Yes, her phrasing lets her emotion shine through in this song,_ Remy thought to himself, as Rogue continued to sing, a burgeoning sense of hope, appropriately enough, riding just under the words she was singing: "A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices…" _I wonder if this isn't what she's always been looking for, a sure promise that someone—or Someone—will always be there for her. Well,_ he silently vowed, moved by the hope—and pleading—in her voice, _well, ma chere, I will do m' poor human best to be there for you; and what I can't help with, I'm sure God—or Whoever it is, looking out for us, putting us in each other's path—can. _Then Remy, too, turned his face back to the front, to listen to the rest of the beautiful hymn. He involuntarily started, jumping in slight shock when she reached the third verse, and sang with an intensity and a remembered pain only he understood: "Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother, And in his name all oppression shall cease." _No wonder she likes this song so much… Dieu, doesn't it mean so much more after what Trask put us through?_ Before he could think more, she was singing the grand, sweet, high end of the song, and when her voice lingered on the high C, truly "divine," he caught his breath, and thought his heart would break from the sheer beauty of the sound, spinning in the otherwise still church.

When she sat beside him a moment later, his cheek was still wet from the tear that had traced its way down his cheek. Silently, in the stillness that had enveloped the church again after her song, she took his hand and gripped it tightly, and leaned her head against his shoulder, ignoring or simply not seeing the furtive glances cast her way. They were each other's path to hope, and on this 'holy night'… that was more than enough.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next morning, Rogue was awakened pleasantly by the smell of coffee wafting inches from her nose. "Hmmm…" she yawned, and blinked open her eyes to see Remy standing over her bed, a tray in his hands. "Merry Christmas, _ma cherie_," he said, and teasingly added, "Y' might want to sit up; I t'ink Santa's visited. Y' must've been a very good _femme, _hmm?"

Laughing, she struggled upright amongst the pillows and thick down comforter, scootched her legs toward herself, and gestured invitationally to Remy. "Well, don't mind if I do have a seat, _chere_," he smiled, and carefully maneuvered the tray with its piping hot contents to the bed, then seated himself on the edge.

Rogue herself leaned over to her bedside table and pulled out a neatly wrapped present. "Why, looky here, Cajun," she exclaimed in mock surprise. "I do believe Mr. Claus just missed the tree; this seems to be for you!" She handed him the gift, biting her lip in trepidation. He smiled at her, delighted, and removed the card from the top of the gift.

He had to chuckle at the card; it showed Santa facing off against a stereotypical house thief who vaguely resembled the Hamburglar, with a mask and a sack over the shoulder. The burglar was saying, "Yeah, I ate the cookies, and I drank the milk too! Whatcha gonna _do_ about it, fatso!" Inside, Rogue's flowing script read, "I sure hope _you_ never stole from Santa. But here's a gift anyway. Merry Christmas!"

He tore the paper off of the box, and opened it to find a simply beautiful pair of calfskin gloves, which matched his duster perfectly. He removed one from the box, marveling at its smoothness, and started when he realized that the dark brown gloves had been embroidered with the Thieves' Guild logo. "Where'd you get these, _chere_?" he asked. "Dey're _tres beau._"

"Well," she said, "the gloves came from a guy who makes custom shoes and gloves and things… the stitching—" the rest of her sentence was lost in a mumble and a blush. A slight grin crossed Remy's face as he leaned closer to her.

"What was that, _chere_?"

"Ah _said,"_ she pronounced, "That I—I did the stitching myself?" Her voice trailed off, slightly uncertain; her eyes were trained upon his face.

"_Chere_," he said softly, "They're beautiful! And you've got the symbol just right. Dese must have taken you forever to do! If I've ever got a more thoughtful or meaningful gift, I can't remember it. And I needed some gloves… glad you're looking out for me." He smiled at her, and her eyes lit in response.

"So," she said suddenly. "One o' those coffees for me?"

"But of course, _chere." _Remy moved the tray nearer to her, plucked something off its surface, and gave it to her. He handed her not a coffee mug, however, but a large flat box, which he'd obviously (and not quite expertly, she was delighted to see) wrapped himself. A tag on top read, "_To my sweet Roisin Dubh, from your resident Thief. No, it's not stolen. No, really. I have the receipt. But you can't see it. Merry Christmas!"_

She laughed, glad she'd not gotten any coffee yet, otherwise it would have been sprayed across the unfortunate Remy. She glanced at him, who was watching her intently, expectantly. _Oh, yeah, the gift. Miiiight want to open it sometime this year, 'Black Rose'._ Smiling, she tore off the paper—which had little ice-skating penguin Santas on it—to reveal a box much like the one he'd given her for her birthday. She lifted the lid—and, like on her birthday, gasped in delight. Lying on a bed of velvet inside was a necklace which matched the bracelet, and two ruby stud earrings. The necklace, however, being larger, had much more intricate detail to it, and she saw, was inscribed with the date at one end. She couldn't resist; she put it on immediately, and the two finials of ruby settled to point at the hollow of her throat. The metal warmed quickly against her skin, and became rather as she sometimes saw Remy himself—warm, comforting, _there,_ but not oppressive, for all that the necklace was, well, around her neck. "Remy, it's beautiful, just beautiful," she breathed, her eyes shining. "It's one of the most beautiful gifts I've ever gotten… In fact, the second piece of jewelry I've ever been given—and that's counting that bracelet you already gave me." She smiled wryly. Then, so suddenly he had no time to move, she planted her hands firmly on the coffee mugs (to avoid their spilling) and swiftly leaned across the tray to impulsively brush her full lips against Remy's. A swift peck, nothing more, but Remy felt the way he had when he'd swiped some of his father's bourbon when he was nine: giddy, a bit dizzy, and completely startled.

Her eyes smiled at him, at a safe distance again across the tray. "Thanks, Cajun. Merry Christmas." She whispered, laughing inside at the look of utter startlement that had crossed his face.

Remy cleared his throat, swallowed, and cleared it again. "Ah… well…"

He was saved by the bell. The doorbell, that is.

"I'll get it!" He immediately volunteered, not bothering to ponder overmuch _who_ would be ringing the doorbell on Christmas morning. When he opened the front door to the crisp, new-fallen snow outside, and saw nothing on the stoop but several large blank boxes, he had to smile.

_Ah, de Guild… gotta keep the mystery in _any_ holiday, don't they?_

"Everything all right?" came Rogue's voice from the stairway.

"It's fine, _chere_, just a package from _ma famille,_" he replied, and dragged the boxes indoors before any more cold could get into the apartment. He eyed the pile dubiously. "Well, a few packages, actually."

Rogue walked down to stand beside him, wrapped in her robe, coffee mugs in her hands. She handed his to him as they looked at the snow-spotted packages.

"Hmm…" she thought aloud. "Presents or breakfast first?"

"Hmm…" he echoed her consciously. "Sorry, _chere, _but there's most likely another letter in there for me… and _Tante _Mattie even 'just' in a letter, should never be faced on an empty stomach. But—oh my, _chere!_" He exclaimed in mock-astonishment as he walked to the kitchen. "It looks like _bon_ Saint Nicholas has also left us some food!"

"What? You made breakfast, too?"

"Hush. I did not'ing of de sort. Was Santa," Remy informed her flippantly.

"Of course. And does Santa usually cook a three-course breakfast?"

"For de very best boys and girls, sure, _cherie._ Haven't you ever been that good of a girl before? Must be my influence," he said smugly, laughing as she mock-whacked him with a kitchen towel. "See, that's the sort of t'ing that makes him _skip_ Christmas breakfast. Sit, chere! Eat! It'll be getting cold." He advised her, and since it _was_ such very good advice, she sat, and thoroughly enjoyed Christmas morning.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Yes, that's where I'm cutting off… I know, I'm mean. Sorry!

**Review Replies:**

**Lady MR1, Eileen B., and Cat2fat900**: Congrats! You're the people who, according to ff. net's records, actually managed to review on this chapter _before_ _it was posted!_ That's fanship there, that is… Ah, such are the mysteries of the Internet, one supposes…

**Lady MR1**—Yep! Mulder and Scully. Hysterically cheesy, yes, AND it's actually going to have something to do with the storyline later! Ahh, glad someone loves my muttered asides of the characters… Thanks for reading/reviewing! Please continue!

**Eileen B.**—Woohoo! The person who inspired the last bit of the last chapter! Oh, and this time you 'really mean it,' do you? Huh? Well then, I've heard _that_ before, now, haven't I? Hmph… G J/k. Woohoo Eileen to quote my favorite captain of the Enterprise! I'll try to 'make it so' sooner next time…

**Cat2fat900**—Update son, you say? Sorry, I'm a daughter. :) But, yes, my friend is still applicable. :)

**bored247**—Aww. (sorta) sorry to make you all sad… but of course that was sorta the point… Glad R&R helped you tho. : )

**tinuviel-telcontar**—Nope. There's a lot of that 'devaluation-of-Rogue' going about in the X-mansion… Must be something in the water. "The love that Scott never realized?" LOL! Might use something along those lines later, in fact… not sure of the plotline to there just yet though. Woot! And I get lurve: )

**Crutey**—A Leg-End? Really? Cool! Now, is that pronounced like two words, end and leg, like Leg. End. (would that make me a foot? Or ankle?) or is it LEH. JEND. Either of which is nifty-cool, and a new title either way: ) Thanks for your review; please do so again!

**Chicita**—I'm back, yes… intermittently for now, it seems. Sorry. Yeah, no one saw Mulder & Scully coming, did they? Hmm, something to consider…. Thanks for reading!

**Nettlez**—"When is Rogue gonna meet up with the X-men?" I feel like the guy from Shel Silverstein's poem "What's in the Sack?" …all in good time, my children, all in good time. Oh, Rogue remembered her birthday all right, but it just didn't seem right to seem to beg for presents by mentioning it. And she didn't know Remy knew when her birthday was, so… Thanks for reading/reviewing! Keep it up, please!

**Sweety8587**—Aww! I'd caution you against putting your feet into this fic, tho, there are mean people like Trask still running about who'd poison those rivers… No, loved that image of my fic—MY FIC?—as a restful river… so nifty! Kudos for most unique image in a review so far! So glad you liked it… please, keep reading and reviewing!

**ishandahalf**—Ish! Woot! Yeah, ambiguous on the Xavier mansion scene, to feel bad for them or to not? That is the question. And it's supposed to be both ways, so really—you don't have to decide at all! LOL. I was SOOOO waiting for your Mulder & Scully reaction, it was everything I was hoping for. And I actually debated about _not_ making the 'random' FBI agents Mulder and Scully, but then figured after the upset at the X-mansion, yes, some (apparently) random lightness was needed. So I'll takes me gold stars and run with 'em!

**sheisbeautiful-sheisnotme**—Woot! Genius status achieved! Aww, thanks. And the FBI is like that, you never see 'em coming. Really. Torture, torture for those waiting for the hookup for a while more, I'm afraid… patience, however, is a virtue. :) No, I thought about it and decided not to beat people's hearts into a pulp by writing a white-table birthday party scene… so put the Kleenex away. For now, at least. And, yes, I am evil… my friend John in fact is convinced I'm a vampire. Muahahaha!

**Iwant2goFAST**—Yes! You recognized that there is, indeed (or seems to be), a method to my madness. Yay for you! And again, awesome with the singing for Disney… Me, I just get farmed out to churches and local operas, and the occasional CD or two. :)

**Shaishe**—Thanks! This isn't a 'soon' update, but I hope you like it nonetheless. :)  
**Kitrazzle Fayn—**Yeah, well, had to put them in… I _did_ promise after all. Glad you enjoyed!

**Selene— **Oh, don't worry, they'll all meet again… eventually. Thanks for 'hopping on the trolley' of this story, as ish might say… Please keep reviewing! That's my food. :)


	14. “I would build that dome in air,”

Graah. Sorry I made it sound like I was snapping meanly at people in my last Author's Note. That wasn't my intention, really… Apologies.

Hmm. So, since I'm interested in vampires, etc. (according to a friend, I'm a vampire myself…lol), and I'm off on a Romy kick, I was thinking about mixing the two in another fic… But of course that would mean I'd have _three_ fics on the burner… thoughts?  
Anyway, here's another Stuff From The Guild chapter. : ) Good _Lord_, this one took me forever to write! I don't know why, really… Hope you all like it. And remember—whether you like it or not, please review!

Enjoy!

Oh—and for you people who don't read French (which I read rather badly, I only learn what I need to sing!): la rose noire is pronounced (roughly) "la RO-zuh NWAH-ruh" … if anyone has a more accurate way to spell out that pronunciation, PLEASE put it in a review or e-mail… fanfic. net doesn't accept IPA characters…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 14: "I would build that dome in air,"

After breakfast was finished, Rogue and Remy decided to leave the dishes for later, and investigate the contents of the boxes from the Guild. They sat where Remy had left them, slowly steaming dry in the hallway, their blank paper coverings beginning to wrinkle.

Rogue stayed in the doorway, watching, as Remy approached the largest of the boxes. He eyed the letter attached to the top in much the same manner as a man would eye a wild animal—as though it were ready to pounce on him.

Carefully, he removed the envelope from the top of the box, walked over to the couch, sat down, and stared at the envelope in his hands for several minutes.

Several _long_ minutes.

Rogue crossed the room. "Cajun," she drawled, "I don't care how good those pretty eyes of yours are; you are _not_ going to be able to read that letter 'til it's _out_ of the envelope."

He turned his head to look at her. "I know…" he said hoarsely, and she was startled to see that his eyes were teared up. "I know, but _chere…_ I miss them so much," he said on a sigh.

She sighed, sat, and placed a comforting arm around his. "I know. It's been, what, more than a year since you've seen them, right?"

He sighed again. "_Oui._ A very long year."

She nudged his shoulder encouragingly. "Well, at least you'll see them again soon." She winced; despite her best effort, a hint of bitterness had seeped into her tone.

"_Chere…_" he said softly, following her train of thought. "It's all right to be angry at your former teammates…"

"It's not that I'm angry at them, exactly…" She said, and shot him a wry glance. "Sorry to be still _on_ about this whole thing, you'd think I'd have gotten over it by _now…"_

"Nah, _chere,"_ he replied easily. "You'll get over it when you get over it, and not before." She smiled wanly at that comment, and continued.

"Well, it's not like I'm _angry_ at them, exactly… Well, no, I _am_ angry at them, but that's not most of it. I feel like—like even if I showed up on the doorstep this minute, after so long away… I feel that I wouldn't be welcome."

"Why's dat, _cherie?"_ He prompted, when she paused.

"Well… if they could just cut and run on me like that… not really _try_ to get me if there was _any_ risk involved… I don't know how valuable I really ever was to them all, except to make sure they knew where I was and who I was absorbing."

"Ah. Because of your power, and your lack of control," Remy murmured. "Y' mean to say, you think Xavier took you in because he wanted to know where the world's potentially most powerful mutant was, not necessarily because he wanted to help you."

"Well, I'm sure he _wanted_ to help me," Rogue swiftly replied, then wilted. "I'm just not sure how strong 'helping me' versus 'keeping tabs on me' ever was, now. I mean, I didn't really have any friends besides Kitty and Kurt. Kitty was my friend mostly because we were rooming together, and also because that's just the sort of nice person both she and Kurt are. But after I lost control—even _they_ didn't want to be around me so much. Too scared of the freak amongst freaks."

"Mmh." Remy considered that for a moment, then asked gently, "_Chere…_ you said you felt as though if you turned up on de mansion's front steps right now they wouldn't welcome you. But what about you? Do you _want_ to go back there?"

Rogue sighed again. "Honestly? No. I really don't think I'd fit in there anymore, if I ever really did, what with all that's happened to me—to _us—_over the past several months. No, I think I'd _much_ rather meet this crazy, thieving family of yours…" She shook off the mood, and added teasingly, "Speaking of which, are you just trying to avoid opening that letter, or what?"

"What?" He glanced down at the letter, lying forgotten in his lap, and laughed. "All right, _chere_, I'll open it." He did so, ignoring her muttered comment of '_Finally.'_

To Remy's surprise, not one, but two smaller envelopes fell out when he removed the outer covering. He handed one to Rogue.

"What's this?"

"I dunno… Has your 'name' on it though."

She turned the envelope over in her hands, frowning slightly as she examined its surface. "Remy… there's a very good drawing of a flower on it, but nowhere does it say my name."

"Sure it does." He tapped the hand-drawn flower. "_Le rose noire,_ de black rose." At her look, he explained, "_Ma famille_ has a strange sense of humor, sometimes."

"Ah," was her only comment, accompanied by a raised eyebrow. Shrugging, she opened the heavy envelope, and pulled out a few sheets of paper. The neat, Palmer-method-perfect handwriting that graced the first page could only belong to Remy's _Tante_ Mattie, and reading the first words only confirmed that suspicion: "_Bonsoir, ma petit cherie!..."_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"_Bonsoir, ma petit cherie! I am so looking forward to meeting you… if that child Remy ever comes home, that is! _

_Ah. Perhaps, as Mercy is suggesting, I should introduce myself. (Mercy, by the by, is Remy's brother's girlfriend.) I am Remy's Tante Mattie, and if that's not enough information that you don't know who I am, then Remy hasn't been doing his duty by me. You just let me know when you get home whether the boy ought to be yelled at or not, the latter of which is unlikely. So: Merry Christmas, my dear! I hope you don't mind, but I've sent along some gifts for you—nothing special, just things like the scarf. I do hope you like them, and I do hope they fit. But there are notes in with the gifts, dear, so I won't waste space here. _

Rogue paused, and thought, _I hope it _fits_…? Uh-oh… that sounds like _clothes. She returned to the letter.

_But that's enough nattering on from an old woman; I'll let Merci write for a bit. _

Here, the handwriting changed to a rounder script that Rogue could only think of as being 'good-natured.' The words were equally warm.

_Hello, Rose Noire! Well that's how everyone else down here is referring to you now… Don't worry, a few of us will remember that you go by 'Roisin'! I'm Mercy, Henri's girlfriend. Tell Remy he'd better have only said nice things about me, or else. You see, we women are terribly outnumbered in the LeBeau house, and even in the Guild as a whole, so I am _truly_ looking forward to having you here. Which, I pray, will be soon. I know you cannot write back an answer, so I will try not to ask any of the thousand and one questions I have for you… Well, actually I will include a few here, so you can have your answers ready when we finally meet. From what that budding pickpocket/courier Henry says, I believe you and I will get along very well indeed. So! Some of my questions: Where did you live before you met Remy? What did you do there? Do you have any hobbies? Personally, during the winter months, I end up doing embroidery a lot, but I also like dancing and horseback riding. If you've never been, I _must_ get you out on some of the trails here—they're such fun! What is your favorite color, and book, and movie? And most importantly: HOW did you and Remy contrive to meet, and in the Federal Witness Protection Program at that?_

_Well. I'm sure I've given you enough questions to think about, and I'm equally sure you'll be telling the Family as a whole the answer to that last question, so I shall stop writing now, and only repeat how very much I am looking forward to meeting you! I believe Tante will add something now. Regards, Mercy._

The handwriting switched again, back to _Tante's_ neat script, which was only a few more lines:

_Yes, Mercy is right: we are all looking very much forward to meeting you, Rose Noire… the sooner the better! Now, keep yourself healthy 'til you get down here where it's warm. And come down as soon as you can! _

_All of our prayers are with you both. Sincerely, Tante Mattie. _

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rogue gently placed the letter in her lap, much touched by the warm welcome and excitement apparent in both women's writing. _So long as that's not all for show,_ she thought, _I actually might fit in down there, a little._ Despite her tendency toward cynicism, she felt a bit of hope blossom within her at Remy's family's apparent welcoming nature. _They're very polite thieves, is all I'll say for now,_ she decided, and turned to see how Remy was coming along with his letter, which was a good deal longer than hers.

He _still_ wasn't reading it.

"I'll say it only one more time, sugar," she drawled threateningly. "Letters work better if you _open them_. Like sometime before the New Year?"

He shot a half-grin in her direction. "I know. Just trying to get t'gether the courage to read what _Tante_ has to say to me."

"She was nice to me," Rogue protested.

He shot her a glance. "Dat's because she _wants_ to be nice an' charming to you. Once we get t' N'Orleans, though, well…" he shrugged. "You can't say you weren't warned: _Don't make Tante Mattie angry_."

"Oh, quit being such a wimp," Rogue replied. "She's already 'yelled' at you for not coming home in the last letter; what else could she possibly have found to be angry at you since then?"

"Don't ask," he replied mournfully. "You'll see for yourself, she'll have found something." So saying, he opened his envelope, which had the words "Mon fils," "My Son," scribbled on its front.

Remy gave her a glance. "Well. At least she let _mon pere_ write first." Rogue rolled her eyes in response as he carefully unfolded the papers, and began to read.  
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Mon fils: I shall reiterate here how very much you are missed here in the family seat. Unfortunately, it's not just because I miss my son, Henri his brother, or the Guild one of their best, one of their princes. No, we really need you back here, Remy, to aid in planning more seamless heists—Jacques simply doesn't have your panache—and for helping this blasted frustrating peace process progress! The new recruits also could use some discipline from their Wild Prince—there are actually a few, now, who have never met you and frankly disbelieve all of the tales the older Thieves tell them of you. We've had more of our new ones get caught in the past few months than in the past year altogether; so please, do return as quickly as possible. And this time it's _not _a request—bring that Roisin girl back with you. The things young Henry reports of her intrigue me…_

_Speaking of whom, a side note to the girl herself. To Roisin Dubh: I, Jean-Luc Anton LeBeau, do formally pledge you my protection and safety from all that is mine and all that is on my lands, from the moment you cross into my borders. Should any try to do you injury or insult, my people and I will defend you to the utmost of our ability._

_Now, Remy, heed what I've written above… Here is your frere to write to you. _

_Mon frere Remy—I can only repeat what pere has writ, that we do miss you greatly. Between your absence and the peace accord, things are far too boring around here! The cousins have little to occupy their time, so they are getting up to more and more mischievous pranks within the Guild. You're the only one who can shut them up, you know it, so _please,_ for all of our sanity's sakes, come home soon. Pere is correct, also, when he says the trainees are getting uppity without their Wild Prince to govern them… several of them sorely deserve a good beating into the ground._

_You might be interested to know that I've spoken with Julian. Apparently, Belladonna is still with her Assassin thug, and may they have joy of one another, so long as they're not trying to kill you. Julian, of course, does not approve of his sister's current choice of beau, but there is little he can do. He does apologize for trying to skewer you on your wedding day, and would be very much obliged if you would return and sign the annulment papers. I must run now—_Tante _is heading this way, and I do believe she'd tear my hand off along with the pen, she's so intent on writing to you._

_Remy LeBeau! Didn't I tell you already to get your self back here, boy? This time I really mean it. I met with one of the voudouns a few days back; she said that the Guild's second son was _needed_ back in town by the ball or some bad juju would be coming down—many will be hurt, and many will die. So if you don't come back, that harm will be on your head—you've been warned. All my love, Tante._

Here Remy had to pause and blink, for the handwriting changed to a much younger hand, one which had not yet gotten the hang of cursive writing, who apparently was also being corrected on his spelling, since there were many cross outs and corrections. He laughed when he realized the author.  
_Hi Roisin! Hi Remy! Everybody else is writting writing it, but I will writte write it too. I miss you. Travelling Traveling down here was really really fun, and all of your paswords passwords and stuff worked, and now I'm lerning learning a ton of stuff. I'm in school and that's not so great, but it's with the Guild and I guess my parents would like it if I wasn't some dropout. The teacher says my speling spelling isn't the best th tho thogh though. (Did your Tante Mattie correct your spelling for you too?) Are the police still looking for a runaway in Ohio? I hope so, so that they can't find me here. See you soon, Very Sincerely Yours, Mr. Henry Walter._

_Mon fils—I did not let the cousins write you this time; they're being punished again. I know, you are shocked and appalled. Included in the packages is some cash; please use it to get here safely, subtly, and quickly. The ball is in mid-February, try to get here by then at least, please. Merry Christmas from all here! Love, Jean-Luc LeBeau._  
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy smiled fondly at his father's final words, and gently refolded the letter and replaced it into the envelope. Both young people sat there for a moment lost in their own thoughts. Rogue was considering how _nice_ everyone seemed, while Remy was pondering how quickly they really _could_ get down to New Orleans. With a shake, Remy freed himself from his thoughts, and instead began opening the gift-boxes, which were filled with smaller boxes.

He pulled out a box or two marked with his own name before coming across a smallish one for Rogue, which he tossed at her without warning.

"Hey! Watch it, Cajun!" she said.

"What, you don't like me t'rowing gifts your way? Okay," he said complacently, causing her to grin. "Guess I'll just kee—"

"You keep the gifts meant for me, I'll sic your _Tante _on you."

"_Chere,_ I had no idea you were so cruel!"

She laughed, "You have no idea."

He threw his hands up in mock-defeat. "Fine, fine, _take _your gifts."

"Don't mind if I do," she simpered at him, and tore the paper off of the gift. Beneath the paper was a long narrow box, with a hinged lid. The box itself was stained an exquisitely rich reddish brown, and inset into the top was the Thieves' Guild logo in brass. Rogue lifted the lid and blinked at what she found inside: To the left, in a compartment perfectly sized for it, was a small bottle of purest black ink. To the right of the ink-bottle was a shallow tray, further compartmentalized to hold several dip-style pens. Two were wooden holders with exchangeable metal nibs, and one was a spiraling long twist of glass. Eagerly, she lifted out this tray to reveal the materials needed to wax-seal a document. Curiously, she lifted the seal to find that it was carved so that it would leave a rose in relief in the molten

wax. She laughed aloud when she realized that the sealing waxes themselves were silver and, of course, black: she could seal her correspondence with the Black Rose. _They sure have taken to that name,_ she thought to herself in amusement, _but then, I bet they nickname everyone: Remy's the 'Wild Prince,' after all…_

Her next gift proved to be more practical, a lovely hand-tooled wallet and matching bag of rich, soft black leather. Obviously, it was an expensive gift; she just hoped it hadn't been stolen from someone who loved it _too_ much. There was a gift certificate to one of her favorite music stores inside of the bag, when she peeked inside; she grinned in delight. _How did they know?_

She turned to see Remy opening his own gift, which proved to be a beautiful silver dagger, with the ever-present Thieves' Guild sigil set into the pommel. The hilt was inset with small precious stones, which winked at her from across the room. The blade was double-edged, long, and narrow. Remy examined it curiously. "Huh," he said, almost involuntarily.

"What?"

"I t'ink dis is one of the Assassins' work," he said. "For _ma pere_ to have bought a dagger for his son from them, de peace talks must be going pretty well." He shrugged, and returned the dagger to its case. He pulled the next large box over, glanced inside, and shoved the entire thing toward Rogue. "Dat's all for you, _chere._ But don't be too nervous about it all."

"Nervous? Why would I be—" Rogue cut herself off as she opened the largest of the boxes inside of the shipping box. Inside was a simply _gorgeous_ dress, from what she could see of it. She stood, and shook it out. It was vaguely Victorian in style, crafted of silver, forest-green, and antique white satin, with a bit of deep blood-red thrown in at accent points. Black lace trimmed the gown, covered parts of it, and upon closer inspection, Rogue could see that it was the same black rose/Thieves' Guild motif that graced the scarf upstairs. The skirt was wide, the bodice seemed to be well-fitted, and the neckline was one that would flatter her most. _How the heck did they know that?_ She wondered briefly, and continued opening boxes; obviously, these all went together. In one was something that looked suspiciously like a corset; in another, an under dress; in a third, a layered underskirt simply _covered_ in yards of lace. _My God, this is all so expensive, _how_ can they just—_mail­—_something like this to me? Aren't they concerned about me ripping or damaging it?_ Despite herself, she found her fingers stroking the satin smoothness of the gown.

She'd never admitted it back at the Institute—it would ruin her image—but part of the reason she liked the Goth stuff was that so much of it was this same exquisite old-fashioned beauty, the attention to details, the rich fabrics and vibrant colors—it wasn't _all_ about the black. She'd _loved_ the dress she'd worn for the musical _Dracula_ in school, and had deeply regretted giving it up at the end of production. It was one of the few times she'd worn a dress—she dressed in tough-girl, anti-girly girl stuff all of the time because, quite simply, girly girl clothes tended to, one, be far too skin-baring for her to be comfortable, and two, they tended to be pastel-colored, which simply looked awful on her. This gown, however, was like the sun to a candle when compared to that dress from the show. It was gorgeous, beautiful. She loved it already.

She could _never _wear it.

"Dat's t' be worn to de ball, _chere," _Remy's voice drawled, interrupting her reverie. "And if I'm not mistaken, it's made of de same stuff as that scarf of yours upstairs… you'll have a hard time damaging it."

She gaped at him, astonished. He meant for her to actually _wear_ this thing!

"Remy, there's _no way_ I can wear this!" She exclaimed. "I mean, it's beautiful, but it's a dress made for a freakin' _princess,_ not someone like me!"

He gave her a hangdog look. "Y' mean you're gonna make me get all dressed up alone? See, they sent me an outfit too." He shoved his own collection of clothes boxes at her. Their contents looked like some fabulous man's costume out of _Phantom of the Opera_ or something, and she could just see how great he'd look in them already.

"_Chere,_" he softly intoned, pleadingly. "What's the matter with the dress? Why won't you wear it?"

"Well… it's… it's just… _not_ something I could see myself wearing and looking even halfway decent in it. I mean, you're asking a former Goth-chick to wear a… a _ballgown,_ and it's beautiful, but I just don't think I can do it justice!"

"Well, I'm a T'ief going to put on de fancy dress-clothes," he pointed out. "I think that's a bit more of a stretch than a _beau femme _such as yourself putting on an equally beautiful dress. Besides," he added, "if you're not in proper dress, dey don't let you in."

She looked at him, aghast. "You're _kidding_."

"I'm not."

She looked at him a moment, and he looked at her, and finally he said, "Would it perhaps help if I gave you de crowning touch to de outfit?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "Maybe."

"Well." He pulled out the final pair of boxes; from they way he handled them, they were heavy. He lifted the lid and glanced inside one, and handed her the other box. She took it with an 'oof'—they _were_ as heavy as they looked.

Slowly she lifted the lid, and literally lost her breath at what was before her. A superb Mardi-Gras ceramic mask looked up at her; it was covered in paint, jewels, feathers, beads, to make an utterly astounding work of wearable art. The effect was phantasmagoric, ethereal; she'd look like a queen of faerie if she wore it…

Gently, she lifted the mask from the box; it was lighter than she expected, probably so the wearer wouldn't get neck strain from wearing it. Unbidden, her eyes fell to the layer beneath the mask, and she felt dizzy with the amount of sheer wealth lying there. Jewelry—in platinum, silver, gold, precious stones—all of it gleamed up at her. There was jewelry for her hair, for her neck, wrists, ankles, fingers…

_Good Lord, if I wore all of this I'd better stay away from standing water, I'd drown in a puddle!_ She thought, awed.

"Remy…" she said slowly. "Did your family make a mistake here?"

"No," he said offhandedly, examining his own mask with delight. "Dey basically just sent you everything you'd have to choose from if we were at the Guild Seat right now. Mercy _did_ mention there aren't many women around, right? Dere's not too many to split stuff up amongst, you see."

"Am I supposed to wear…_all_ of it?" Her tone was doubtful.

To her utter relief, he burst out laughing. "No, _chere,_ you can pick and choose what you'd like to wear—some of it, all of it, none of it. _Tante_ just wanted to make sure you weren't left out of de choices all de other girls have."

"Ah." She heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, Cajun, I won't promise yet that I'll wear all of this, but I _will_ try it all on, see how it is. Is that all right for now?"

"Sure, _chere." _As she turned to carry some of the things upstairs, he stopped her. "Rogue?"

She turned. "Yes?"  
"Did you have a good Christmas?" His smile was anxious.

Her face broke into a smile. "The best, Remy," she said. "Merry Christmas."  
"Merry Christmas." They smiled at each other a moment more, then Remy too began to help clean up the room as Rogue walked upstairs, humming a carol.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

As **Review Responses** are now _verboten_ on fanfic. net, well, if you want me to reply to you from now on you WILL have to login before reviewing, OR you will have to include your email address in your review. (I really don't want to ask people to put their email up in such a public forum. However, I really don't want to have to switch to "signed reviews only" either. But if I have to I will.) So from now on, starting next chapter, my **Review Responses** area will address only those concerns/questions that a lot of reviewers seem to have. If there are no common questions, well, then I guess I'll just leave a comment. Please don't let this dissuade you from reviewing, however! As I said before, if you are signed in when you review, I _­will_ reply, at least briefly. Thanks again! –Alara


	15. Ancestral voices prophesying war!

Wooow. I'm so glad that torturous bout of writers' block is over! Anyway, some New Years' celebrations in New York and New Orleans. And some Guild background goodness. Uhm… purists, might not want to read, 'cos I play fast and loose with "the Source"/"Candra" of canon. And I also REALLY mucked about with good ole' American history… Though it –is- true the brothers Lafitte were instrumental in the early growth of New Orleans… and it –is- true TJ offered them reprieve from charges of piracy if they'd secure the Mississippi for the USA… but everything else, pretty much, is out of my own cracked skull.

Oh… and some kind anonymous reviewer said "la rose noire" is more "la rose nwah" than "ro-ze nwa-re". Ahh, singer's diction, where _will_ you set me wrong next? Lol. Anyway, Whoever—thanks for the info!

As always…Enjoy!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 15: "Ancestral voices prophesying war!"

_New Year's Eve._ Charles Xavier pondered the last year as he looked around at the students, who were perched in various places in the spacious living room. Occasionally one would shift to get a clearer view of the television, where the Times Square festivities cast a golden glow into the room.

He pondered his students, and how the past year had affected them—the most significant event being, of course, Rogue's death. Most were doing as well as could be expected, with Dr. Banks' aid. Kurt and Kitty had taken over tending her memorial marker, did so religiously, but had otherwise mostly moved on. Evan had healed from his long-hidden bitterness. Even Scott had healed so far as to lead the team in training—though Kurt and Kitty, as next-most senior, were co-leaders with Logan in "real" missions. Jean had recently started participating in training again. Despite the individuals' progress, however, group therapy was still ongoing for the entire student body. Even Xavier, so self-assured, so secure, had found a measure of help with sessions with the therapist. To no one's surprise, Logan was the least healed and the most resistant to therapy of all of them.

As though his thought had summoned him, Logan came to stand by Charles Xavier, swigging back a beer that had, of course, no effect on him. Both men were silent for a moment. Then, suddenly, Logan began speaking, as though continuing a broken-off conversation.

"Sometimes, Chuck, I wonder if we did right by her…" he said, voice gruff. No need to ask who 'she' was. "Sometimes I wonder if she—she _died_—feeling so lonely as Kurt and Kitty said. I mean, I know I was pushing her hard in the Danger Room sessions toward the end, but I thought I was going good by her. After she lost control like that," he shook his head sadly. "I was never so scared for her. You _do_ know she calmed down that time only because she _wanted_ to? Not from anything I did or said."

Xavier gave him a sharp glance, which Logan, eyes focused out the window, didn't see. "I hadn't." He quietly replied. "No, I did not realize that," he sighed, and confessed, "I, too, feel that I failed Rogue. In not helping her get her powers under control, in allowing _my_ damnable _fear_ of those powers to overcome my desire to help her…"

"You were _afraid_ of her?" Logan asked, slight surprise coloring his voice.

The professor smiled thinly, and steepled his hands in front of him as he spoke. "I admit, I was. Oh," he said, in response to the expression Logan sent his way, "not at first, no—not for a long time. She was just another young mutant who was desperately in need of welcome and help. Before she lost control, though, I had already developed a healthy respect for the _potential_ her powers represented. The power of every mutant, in _one_ person…" He trailed off for a moment. "Sometimes I hoped she'd get control just to see how far her power could extend, and to show the world that mutant powers, even in mind-boggling quantity, is not inherently a bad thing. But then she lost control, and I heard the cacophony of psyches inside her head. They startled _me,_ who ought to be the one mutant _least_ affected by such noise." His voice turned sad as he finished, "I allowed that fear to take root, to grow, and that fear prevented me from any further serious attempt to help her. I thought I'd have time to work through it… I always thought we'd have time. So if you feel you failed her, know, my friend, that you are not alone in that guilt."

Logan was silent and still a moment, then took a swig of his beer. "Yeah, Chuck. Me, too. Thought there'd be time, to talk, to help…" Both men sighed in unison. Then Logan mutely, almost unthinkingly, offered the bottle to Xavier, and Xavier, much to his own surprise, accepted it, took a draught. For the moment, at least, they were united in shared beer and shared sorrow, an age-old tradition of men.

And for the moment, that sharing was enough for both.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Jean-Luc raised the wineglass to his eyes, examining the red-hued liquid by the fire's light.

"Marius, you always did had excellent taste in wine," he complimented the Head of the Assassins' Guild. He took a sip of the wine, savored it, trusting that Bordreaux hadn't poisoned it. _Well,_ he figured, _Bordreaux's trusting _me_ by coming here, to the house of his former enemy. The least I can do is assume he isn't trying to kill me. Besides, I've taken all of the usual antidotes. After all, it never hurts to be too cautious._ He didn't miss Brodreaux' close eyeing of his throat, to be sure he swallowed the wine. That was only to be expected, of course. Bordreaux would pretend _he_ didn't know Jean-Luc had undoubtedly taken antidotes before his arrival, Jean-Luc would pretend _he_ didn't know Marius' "personal aide" was one of his top assassins, and both men pretended their guards were _not_ just outside the door within easy hearing. No doubt, also, that those same guards were all companionably playing Pieces O' Eight, or some other portable gambling game, in tradition of guardsmen since Roman times.

With a blink, Jean-Luc brought himself back to the present and carefully set his glass down. A nearly imperceptible quirk of one eyebrow met an equally subtly nod from Bordreaux.

Mentally he let out a held breath, but let no actual physical change mark his relief: Marius would sign the non-aggression pact for another three months, while the two Guilds still hammered out a permanent treaty acceptable to both.

"Julian, Belladonna, come." Marius said. Their father's quiet order brought them from the corner where the rest of the group assembled—Mattie, Etienne, Theoren, Emil, Henri, and Mercy—were playing a game. A look from Jean-Luc's gray eyes brought the rest nearer to where the two men stood by the table.

"Henri…Etienne," he said quietly, hesitating only slightly over his nephew's name. A stab of regret pierced him, that he could not call forward _both_ of his children to witness the pact, as Marius had done. In a rare moment of compassion, the Assassin touched the Thief's hand briefly. His brown eyes met Jean-Luc's in sympathy, though mercifully, he said nothing. Jean-Luc smiled slightly, and turned toward the oaken table that dominated the room.

Lying on the table in a pool of light—no symbolism lost there—were two copies of the pact; pens and heated sealing wax flanked them. Both leaders perused the papers, matching the carefully scripted words against those in their memories. Marius finished re-reading it first, gave a satisfied grunt, and patiently waited for Jean-Luc to finish his review of the document. When both had finished reading, they reached for their pens, and as one, signed one copy, then the other—one for the Assassins, one for the Thieves.

_Everything has to be done in just the same way, at the same time, to be fair, to be true to Tradition,_ Jean-Luc reminded himself. _Perhaps in the new treaty, we should make some less obnoxious traditions…_

Then, again in keeping with tradition, the four witnesses stepped forward to be sure both leaders had signed both pacts. One by one, they each signed the papers. Then Julian and Henri carefully tipped the hot wax onto them for their fathers to imprint with the signets both men wore. They did so, and it was finished. An unspoken tension seeped out of the room as Jean-Luc and Marius shook hands, smiling openly for the first time that evening.

"_Bonne année_," Jean-Luc greeted the room as the clocks began to chime the start of the new year.

"May it be a productive and peaceful one for us all," Marius toasted. More softly, he said to Jean-Luc, "First, we need your son here, though, LeBeau," he reminded him, his eyes moving to Belladonna meaningfully.

He blinked in surprise as Jean-Luc confided, "_Tante _Mattie insists he come home as soon as possible, also, and not necessarily for her sake, or even for the treaty's."

"_Does_ she, now." Bordreaux returned thoughtfully. "Even in the Assassins' Guild, much is said of your Mattie's thoughts and intuitions, much indeed."

"With good reason," Jean-Luc said. "We have learned, over the years, to listen when she tells us something. And right now, she's saying, 'Get that son of yours—and his girl—down here by the Ball, or there'll be trouble.' " He eyed Marius sharply. "The Ball is a Thieves' Guild affair, nothing to do with the Assassins, but I must ask: do you know of anything that might be considered… 'trouble'?"

"No, I don't," Marius hesitated, then went on, "but our Guild has received similar warning, that '_le diable blanc'_ and '_la rose noire' _must meet the Source at the annual tribute. '_Le diable blanc'_ has been Remy's nickname for years, but who, or what, is '_la rose noire'?"_

Jean-Luc hesitated before answering the question. After all, while Bordreaux wasn't his Guild's enemy anymore, neither was he their closest ally. And rule number one of surviving the Guilds was that one didn't give one's information, however irrelevant-seeming, to _anyone_ outside one's own Guild, unless it were a matter of survival for all.

But… the LeBeaus, with their penchant for nicknaming those who came into contact with their family, had called Remy's Roisin "la rose noire" as a joke, a pun on her name. This…prediction of the Assassins' Guild, though—it changed things. It especially changed things in light of the warning about the Source, and the annual tribute that both Guilds owed to her.

The Source was the Guilds' one constant connection, their eternal common ground. No one was quite sure _what_ she was; somewhat Native American in origin, but not wholly so. What the lore and history of both Guilds agreed on was that shortly after the pirate brothers Jean and Pierre Lafitte established the pirates' port at the then-still-young town of New Orleans, they had had an argument…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- _New Orleans, circa 1805_

The argument and resultant fight had grown so violent that Jean and Pierre retreated into the wilds surrounding the Mississippi River's mouth to 'duke it out,' lest their infighting incite those within their power to similar public rioting. As pirates, the brothers Lafitte were both thief and murderer on the high seas. Establishing a town, a haven for other pirates, however, put them into the position of an odd, shared, quasi-kingship over those who chose to make their home base New Orleans. After all, being in charge of a ship—or even a fleet of ships—was a far cry from the management, order, and power necessary to maintain a city, with its inhabitants, workers, shopkeepers, and the like. Not to mention the added complication presented by a city comprised of _pirates,_ with their wives and families, their prostitutes, and their booty-sellers. Placing themselves in power over such a tinderbox of a town had forced the brothers to turn their thoughts to the future and to the inevitable fact that sometime, likely soon, they would have to retire from outright piracy and take up some other career. Preferably, it would be something that used those well-honed skills. Jean argued that thievery was the way to go, as that was what piracy was at its heart; Pierre replied that a thief was much easier to catch on land than at sea with a speedy ship beneath him. Pierre countered Jean's suggestion with one of his own: that they take the new American President, Thomas Jefferson, up on his quietly offered nonaggression contract. In return for the Lafittes restricting British access to the mighty Mississippi River, the United States of America would not send its rather formidable, battle-trained navy to combat the pirates living so close by. Implicit in the contract was that in addition to "restricting access," the brothers would capture and kill, if necessary, any British dignitaries or high-ranking officials, with a bounty per head to be paid them for that service. Each brother became so attached to his own idea that the argument degenerated into a fistfight. They chased each other through the wooded, swampy land 'til at last they came to a clearing. There they rained blow after blow on each other, fighting as only brothers can.

Then, out of nowhere, they heard a woman's resonant voice: "_What_ are you doing?"

Startled, for neither brother had seen so much as a dog, let alone a woman, they stopped fighting and stood back-to-back, ready for any threat the voice's owner presented. But when they looked around, they saw an impossible sight: A faintly luminous woman, with an ageless face walked—no, floated—to them. Floating was bad enough, and never mind the eldritch glow about her. Those could, conceivably, be explained—a smooth gait, foxfire. What could not be explained was _where_ she was hovering—directly over the lake. The Lafittes stood, mouths agape, as the apparition neared them, and laughed.

"Ah, siblings." The tone was wry. "Siblings, neighbors, lovers, enemies…" Wistfulness entered the voice now. "None have been living here in so long, so very long. I have missed watching people, their dramas, their dreams… I nearly faded entirely away without human interaction—and that, oh, _that_ is a slow and frighteningly unnoticeable death. But you—you thieves-with-honor, you killers-with-conscience, you have brought people back to me, to this land that is mine, awakened me from my death-sleep." She paused, and considered the stunned-ox expressions both men wore. Jean ventured to speak.

"We are…glad…to have, ah, helped you, _Mademoiselle,"_ he stammered, exchanging bewildered looks with his brother. "But to be honest, we had no idea we'd be helping anyone by coming here!"

She laughed, a sound that rolled around them but eerily, traveled no further. "What did I say? Honorable thieves. But I _do_ repay services done to be, however inadvertently or unintentionally."

"Repay?" Pierre blurted. "But what can _you_ give us?"

She smiled. "Why, the future itself, gentlemen. And," she added nonchalantly, "a solution to this quarrel of yours, and one that will last for generations… that is, _if_ you and yours continue to visit me."

Pierre gave her a half-suspicious glance. Sure, she could float on water and glow, but that didn't mean she was all-powerful. "Solve our argument? And how is that, may I ask?"

"It is simple. So simple it is a wonder you did not think of it yourselves. Indeed, I cannot count it as true repayment for your saving of me, for there is a good likelihood you would have thought of it soon on your own. That is why I propose that you bind you and your descendants to a promise with me, a treaty, a covenant to be maintained through the years. Your people will gain a warning of the movements of their enemies long before those enemies have even decided on a course of action; I will inform you of advantageous times and places in which to ply your chosen trade—though it is up to you to make the best use of the information I will provide. What I propose, you brothers Lafitte, is that you split your duties according to your inclinations. You, so-sharp Pierre, follow up on your desire to leave outright thievery behind, and take care of taking lives out of this world for profit, maintain the security of your people—become an assassin, become _the_ Assassin. While you, so-charming Jean, you take up the thieving your brother leaves behind, assume the wealth of others as your own, preserve the prosperity of your people—become a prince, a king among Thieves. Both of you, share the power of rule between you, for with enemies all about there can be no security, but at the same time, eliminating those enemies requires funding. Thus your Assassins and Thieves will remain in a codependent relationship as a whole, yet be ruled over and trained independent of each other by each one of you."

"And what happens to these Assassins and Thieves when we are dead, and there is no one to maintain that relationship? What if the Assassins decide to kill the Thieves, or the Thieves rob the Assassins' employers?" Jean asked, his tone challenging. "What then?"

"I shall require some token, some tribute from each of your groups once a year, in exchange for the information I will provide to you. By the time you are old and dying, that Tradition will have been established and passed on to your successors already. If ever one group misses a tribute, that group will fall into disfavor, and receive information from me no longer. The other will continue to receive intelligence as long as they bring tribute. I can assure you that the information I will impart will be of such help and benefit to each group that neither will chance ever missing their tribute. But—if I find that one group misses a tribute, and it was due to the _other_ group's conniving, the other group will fall into disgrace, and be given over to their enemies. Thus the groups will keep order and keep each other in check, so the balance is maintained."

And so the brothers Lafitte sealed the agreement with the being they came to call the Source, and things _did_ come to pass as she had predicted. Tradition was established, and the Guilds—for so they soon came to be called by the townspeople—thrived, an open secret amongst the denizens of New Orleans, jealously guarded by them from outsiders' prying questions. And, as the Source had predicted, the Guilds remained in a constant power flux, each striving to be the more powerful without crushing the other, for neither forgot that if one Guild should become the more powerful, it would inevitably mean the other's exposure and ending.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.- _New Orleans, present day_

That earliest history of the founding of the Guilds lay behind the current desperate, determined attempt at a treaty between them. Before the peace pacts of the past year had been settled, Jean Lafitte's challenging 'what if' had nearly become reality, with Julian encouraging Assassins to strike at the Thieves for Remy's marriage to Belladonna, and the Thieves burgling the Assassins in subtly disruptive retaliation. Both leaders finally declared 'Enough!' and settled down to some serious negotiation. They hoped to have the treaty settled before the next visit to the Source, have her approval before officially sealing it. That was part of the reason they needed Remy back in New Orleans before then, for, aside from Mattie's shadowy predictions, Remy was particularly favored by the Source. Last year, when he hadn't made it to the tribute because of his exile, she had almost pouted, and extracted a promise from both leaders that he _would_ be at this year's offering. Neither man wanted the supernatural being upset with them. That common ground, however, proved to be a good place to start the peace talks. This most recent pact included a clause that both groups would do what was necessary to get Remy, and anyone standing by, back in New Orleans as soon as possible. That, of course, assumed that he didn't typically show up himself, unexpected, Puck-like in his ability to appear and disappear at will. Jean-Luc sighed, and wondered what trouble his son was up to at the moment… Then he shook off his reverie, and turned to Marius to answer his question. "La Rose Noire. Well, we don't even know much, but here's what we do know—or can assume about her..."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

R&R's New Year's in the next chapter… which I'm working on… so no 2 month wait this time. Although I might get in an update on "Black" first, when I finish -that- chapter. Sla'n! —Alara


	16. “And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

No Author's Notes this time, only an apology for the terrible lateness of this update! –some action, again. Enjoy!

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Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 16: "And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:"

New Year's Day, Ohio

Rogue groaned as she woke in bright sunlight, her head pounding. From the angle of the too-bright sunbeams streaming in her window, it was well past ten a.m., and her head felt like someone had been using it in a game of Pin-Ball. _Good thing I don't have work anymore… What the hell did I _do_ last night?_ She wondered, before attempting to sit up, kicking the covers aside. _Ugh. Bad idea,_ she acknowledged, as her sense of balance took its fine sweet time in catching up with her. Once the room settled, and she could focus enough to read the clock—10:37am—she frowned. _Why in Sam-hill does this headache feel kind of familiar? If a headache can _be_ familiar… _ Then it dawned. _Absorption backlash. Who the _hell _did I absorb? Remy? But he doesn't have this effect on me anymore… _Quickly, she "filed" backward through the mental catalogue of people she'd absorbed recently. Given their near-nightly "practice sessions" for her to gain better control over her powers, the most recent _should_ be Remy… but it wasn't.

Instead, a flash of foreign memory came to her: in an odd, doubled sort of vision, she saw herself, lounging at a bar, looking over her shoulder at something. _I was waiting for Remy to bring our coats, and I was at the bar so he'd know where to find me,_ she recalled. _And then that jerk started hitting on me…_ She examined the not-her-memory more closely; it was blurred and blunted with an excess of alcohol, a distinctive effect she'd noticed when that bastard Trask had had her absorb alcoholics or druggies during his tests. _That's right, the jerk was totally smashed, and didn't believe me when I told him I was with someone. _A slightly closer look at his flash of memory showed that he was drunk enough, at that point, to be convinced that _no_ female could resist _his_ 'mojo' and 'awesome lines.' _Especially_ not on a lonely New Year's Eve.

Rogue frowned again, and tried to simply "replay" his foggy memory of whatever-the-hell happened last night. Through her practices with Remy, they'd discovered that if she reviewed a memory soon after absorbing it, she could more easily differentiate the absorb-ee's memory and psyche from her own, thus resulting in a less-permanent, less-strong presence in her mind. _Well, there's no time like the present…_ she figured, and settled down to review the clip of memory.

_:So this hot chick was looking over her shoulder at something, and didn't notice me smoothly slide onto the bar stool next to where she was standing, leaning all sexy against the bar. Man, when I'm good, I'm good—she didn't even see me. She was a sweet young thing, all creamy white skin and slim and just enough curves, but not too curvy, you know. Anyway, so I toss her a_ classic _line, 'Buy you a drink?' and the little bitch has the gall to try and lie to me. Where does she get off telling me she's 'with someone, thanks anyway'? What, do I not look rich enough for her? But, hey, it's cool, I'm a cool guy, so I don't get mad. And she smiled at me when she said it, so I figure she's just playing by the newer set of rules, you know, acting hard to get 'cause she doesn't want to look like a slut, or an alkie trolling for free drinks. So I smile back, and slide closer, and decide to cut through the usual moves. See, it's like, 11pm by this time, and if we're gonna be getting it on by midnight—New Year's—well, we can't be playing these games for long. And she's built for messing around with, long lean legs, hips just barely wide enough to grab onto… Damn. I got hard just looking at her. So I just cut to the chase, and get an arm around her waist—she had to have seen that coming, and she didn't move, the sly bitch, she _was_ just being a flirt before. _

_Then I explain to her, "Now, come on. We both know how this will play out. You'll say, 'Oh, someone's coming for me,' and I'll say, 'Well, that's too bad since I'm right here now.' And then after a while you'll say 'Gee, I guess he just _forgot,_ and I _can't_ spend New Year's _alone_,' and then I'll say 'Well, that's his loss. So let's just go back to my place and he can just get here late and be alone, and you'll get back at him_ and_ you'll get me, two for the price of one, how's that sound?' And then _you'll_ say, 'Well to be fair I just have to give him five more minutes,' and then the five minutes will go by and be _wasted,_ and then we'll leave as planned, and all for a guy who doesn't really exist, and we both know it. No guy would leave a chick like you alone. So we don't have to play out the game, see, 'cause I already know where it's going." _

_So I say all this to her, and her jaw drops open, all mock-surprised, that mouth's so inviting—oh, man, is she so eager at the thought! But then she gives me—_me_—a look like I'm an idiot, and persists in playing the game anyway! "No," she says in this fake annoyed voice, and she leans away from me, "No, there really _is_ a guy I'm with, so leave me alone." But see, she doesn't make a real effort to get me to let go, she just leans away some. So I know she doesn't really mean it. _

_And then out of _nowhere_ this random guy just _butts in_ with this wannabe, fake-o accent, and is like, "Mah shuh-ree, are you ready to go?" He's _so_ obviously just trying to get her for himself, but that's too bad 'cause I got here first. I tell him so, and he _must_ be crazy, 'cause he says, "Nawn, I b'leeve dat she ees with me." And I say, still chillin', but starting to get mad—because time's still going by— "Listen, dude, she's spending the night with me, we've already discussed it, we're not _playing_ these games tonight." And then _she_ gets this pissed off look on her face and goes, "Discussed? There wasn't much _discussing_ going on here, just you being hands-y and creepy, and making all sorts of crazy assumptions, and I _sure _as hell ain't sleeping with you—tonight or ever!" She is _so_ good at that hard-to-get bit. So I figure I'll try to get her to give up the game sooner, and I get my hands on her hips, and I pull her between my knees, just close enough she can feel the goods, just long enough for her to get a good hard lean in. And her thigh feels so good against me… _

_Then the crazy guy—who's wearing a trenchcoat, who the hell wears a trenchcoat anyway?—says something in his fakey French accent, and reaches in the coat, for a piece, I figure. So being a savvy guy, I pull the chick in front of me, in between me and him. See, I knew I was smart. Not only is she between me and the crazy guy, but now she's got her _back_ to me and I've still got a hold of her, so I just lean her against me, man, doesn't she have a nice firm ass and isn't it at the perfect height right _there,_ so I pull her real close against me, get my knees right around her… And she says, "Look, just let me go and we won't have to hurt you." Like she really wants to hurt me. Riiight. But I ignore her and keep my eyes on the dangerous one, the guy, who pulls out, of all damn things, a freakin' deck of _cards_ from his coat. Not a gun after all. _

_So I give him a nice aren't-you-an-idiot smile, and say, "Oh, are you gonna papercut me to death? I'm scared." And the chick goes, "R-Raoul, no—my way's quieter, won't risk getting us—noticed—as much." He frowns, says, "Shuh-ree, you sure you be wanting diss guy in yoh hed, even eef eet's just fur a bit oh time?" His accent was really crap, just crap. She just gives him some look I can't see—'cause she's still in front of me, and I think I'm gonna keep her there a while, yeah… And he puts his deck of cards back. "Yeah, Baby, think you made the right decision here," I start to say, moving her closer to me, when she puts her hands on mine and I guess it's just too much for me with the drinking and all, because it's going really dark…:_

Rogue shook herself, as she mentally packed the memory away. _Ugh. I am _so_ glad I don't have to go through that memory again… Gross. _She got up from the bed, feeling more than a little sick, and sorely in need of a long hot shower. _Wonder where Remy is? Maybe he can fill me in on what happened after that guy passed out, cause I sure don't have any memories of my own._ Suiting action to thought, she left her room and headed toward Remy's.

She knocked softly, and when she received no answer, peeked in the door. Remy lay on his bed as though he had walked in and literally fallen over onto it; his face looked tired, even in sleep. The soft sound of his breathing was loud in the quiet space. She took a half step inside the room, and his eyes opened, darted around 'til they saw her in the doorway. His entire body relaxed minutely, and he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "G'morning, _chere._ What time is it?" He mumbled.

"It's almost eleven," she replied. "Mind if I come in?"

"Free country," he said, waving her in and making space for her to sit on the bed. "What's going on?"

"Well," she said slowly, "I'd sorta like to know what _went_ on, last night, at the bar. I just reviewed an… interesting… memory, one that wasn't mine." She paused and added, "Funny thing is, I don't have any memory of my own to match against it, really, and no recollection of what happened after."

"Ah. De creep you absorbed." Remy commented. She nodded. "Well. After you knocked him out, you rather ingeniously yelled, 'Oh my God! This guy just passed out on me!' which was kind of true, since he fell forward _onto_ you. Which, _chere,_ was one creepy image," he added as an aside. "I do not ever want to have to watch you fall with some big guy on top of you. Especially not when he was just… ah… trying to…"

"Rub up on me and—? Yeah, wasn't a fun thing for me, either." She shivered. "So what happened then?"

"Well, most of de people were just like, 'Well, he's drunk, cart him off someplace to sleep it off.' But I guess dis one _homme,_ he was watching our little drama more closely than the rest, because he goes, 'I think she did something to him!' " Remy's face turned a bit chagrined. "I couldn't resist the opportunity—I mouthed off, said something like, 'He's had his hands all over de unwilling _femme_ for a few minutes, and you all are _s'prised_ she's _maybe_ done something to get him to lay off? He's lucky he still has his cojones, so far as I'm concerned.' Then I helped you get him off of you so you could get back up, and we tried to leave, but the same damn guy speaks up again. 'He didn't fall 'til she touched his hands on purpose,' he points out. Den…" he sighed. "He outed us, chere. 'I t'ink she's a mutant!' de guy says, and complete pandemonium broke out. Some people were coming forward like it was a zoo exhibit, other people were fighting to get out, like it might be catching or something. One person tripped up another, who fell against a group, which caused a full-scale barfight to break out. During de fight—well, you kicked some ass, _chere!"_ he said admiringly. "Gonna have to have you teach me some o' dose moves sometime."

"Get on with the story, Remy."

"Ah. Well, we were trying just to get out o' dere in one piece when someone got knocked down right under your feet, took you down by accident. You were doing well 'til your head cracked against one of de barstools, and you were out like a light—and under the crowd. I couldn't see you, so I did what I do best."

"What, ya lifted every wallet in the place?" Rogue drawled sarcastically, smiling.

He gave her a sardonic look. "_Non._ I grabbed a bottle o' cheap bourbon—didn't deserve de name, really—I charged 'er up, and I tossed her at the ceiling. When she go 'boom,' I went in real fast, grabbed you, and got the hell outta Dodge befo' anyone noticed what'd really happened. Got back here, tossed you in your room, came in here, fell over, and dat's all I remember 'til just now."

"Huh." Rogue said thoughtfully. "Well, we'll be very, very lucky if we didn't make the 6am news shows, then." Horror crossed her face as she realized what she had just said.

"Shit." "_Merde."_ Both said at the same time, and they scrambled out of Remy's room, careened down the stairs, and got the television on just in time for the eleven a.m. newscast.

"At the top of our news hour," the perky blonde reporter said quasi-cheerfully, "another story in our ongoing mutant-human relations series. Last night, during New Year's Eve festivities in local hotspot Blue Parrot Cafe, a minor explosion took place during a barfight. The fight was allegedly sparked when a young female mutant tried to leave the bar, but was detained by an unknown individual sitting at the bar. Eyewitnesses reports are mixed, not agreeing on whether the young woman should be considered a terrorist—or a terrified victim. Nor do the accounts agree on whether the mutant used her powers in self-defense, or as an offensive attack to support the so-called 'mutant superiority' movement. Local police are reviewing the bar's security videotapes for more information, and to determine whether the explosion was also mutant-related, or merely a byproduct of the riot. No descriptions of the three major suspects in the incident have been released. We'll have further details as events warrant, so stay tuned to News Channel 11, your source for the latest reports."

"Damn." Rogue muttered darkly, slouching back in her chair. "So what now?"

"We stay low, I guess, _chere," _he shrugged. "Dere's not a whole lot else to do, is there?"

"No, I suppose there isn't."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next few weeks were tense ones, with near-daily updates of the "new year's mutant-driven riot" or "assault on mutant victim" news broadcasts, the tone depending on the particular network. Their only source of ease was the fact that so far, no one had released descriptions of the mutants in question, and the authorities hadn't contacted them, either.

It all came crashing down on the last day in January.

Once again, they were watching the 11am newscast, half-dreading and half-eager to see the developments in "the case," which seemed to have little to do with them anymore, so far had the story been spun out over the weeks.

"Breaking news in the Parrot Café New Year's Riot this morning," the same half-smiling anchor reported—she never seemed to be sad or anything, and it bugged the hell out of Rogue. She forgot her annoyance, however, in a cold wash of fear at the next words from her bleached teeth.

"Investigators have granted News 11 the right to show exclusive footage from the New Year's Eve event, in hopes it will bring forth legitimate leads in the case. We've highlighted several key persons in the footage. Anyone who recognizes any of the persons involved are asked to please immediately call the number at the bottom of your screens." Obligingly, a telephone number appeared.

"Now, the footage gets chaotic toward the end, but again, we've highlighted the persons of interest."

The image cut away to a somewhat grainy black-and-white video feed, and, true to the anchorwoman's word, some people in the image were spotlighted in lighter gray ovals. One was the creep from the bar. One was the back of Rogue's head. The third was Remy—turned just enough toward the camera that a person who knew him could possibly recognize him. Remy and Rogue were transfixed, staring horrified at the 12 seconds of footage, which took an eternity to get through.

They both jumped when the phone rang immediately following the video's end. Remy grabbed it. "'Allo?"

Rogue watched as his face became very still, and he sat up in his chair, his body oozing a sudden tension. "What? When?" He listened to the reply. "Ok. De airport, Gate 11-B, at 2:30. Right. Uh—de Feds keep t'ings from de Feds? –Oh. Of course. Yes. Goodbye."

"What is it?" Rogue asked, leaning forward.

"Dat was our friendly local neighborhood Witness Protection Program Agent, who apparently has been tipped off that de _non-_WPP FBI agents are interested in our whereabouts concerning de riot. She wants us to pack our t'ings and meet her at the airport in a couple of hours. Apparently, de Feds don't even share information amongst themselves. Big surprise. C'mon, let's go pack up."

Gamely, she followed, asking, "But what does she think they're going to do to us? Question us to death? All we have to do is say it wasn't us, right?"

"B'lieve me, _chere,_ de police _never_ believe it 'wasn't really you,' even when it _wasn't _really you. Oh," he added, as they moved upstairs, "Be sure to pack de gifts from de Guild… de dress can be crumpled down into a smaller packet, the stuff dey make it out of tends not to wrinkle."

"But why take them along? Won't they all be too much to carry?"

"Like I said, they pack down small—we're Thieves, remember, chere, we've got to be able to hide things in plain sight. And some o' it can't be let into de Authority's hands—de Guild would rather they be destroyed. Just trust me on this, Rogue," he said, frustration threading his voice.

"All right," she acquiesced, and swiftly began to pack a few days' and nights' worth of clothing, fitting the marvelous gifts from the Guild in as best she could. And Remy was right, damn him, even the jewelry somehow didn't make the bags weigh much more. The Mardi Gras mask, she decided upon reflection, could be safely carried as an art piece in its box without undue suspicion from the authorities at the airport.

At about 1pm they were finished packing, and nearly ready to leave for the airport. Remy had called for a rental car, and was in back packing its trunk while Rogue was in the kitchen packing food to take along—Remy's family had been generous with the amount of cash they had sent along, sure, but it never cost to be too prepared.

A flat _crack_ made her head turn toward the front of the apartment. "What was—" she began to ask, when Remy's flying tackle from behind took her completely by surprise. Her arms took the brunt of the fall as Remy landed half on top of her, his arm pressing her head to the floor.

"Quick, outside, _chere! _Crawl." He hissed, gesturing toward the open back door. Before she could ask why, the apartment exploded in a hail of bullets, the front windows shattering inwards, glass shards tearing through the curtains. Her mouth went utterly dry with fear, preventing her from screaming as she instinctively crab-crawled toward the back door and down the couple of steps to the alleyway in the back. Remy was right behind her, keys in hand as he scuttled to the car, bent double, gesturing for her to do the same. They scrambled into the car, Remy getting it in motion before they even had the doors closed. As silently and carefully as possible, he turned out of the alleyway and headed away from the apartment. Once they were a few blocks away he spun the tires in sudden acceleration speeding God only knew where.

"R-Remy," Rogue finally gasped out. "What was that!"

He made a strangled, inarticulate sound. She looked over at him and realized that his jaw was clenched so tense he literally couldn't speak. His hands were bone-white around the steering wheel, and his arms shook slightly with strain. Gently, she placed one of her hands on his arm reassuringly. "C'mon, Cajun, slow down a bit, it won't to any good to be pulled over now. Where are we going?"

"T-train," he got out finally, after slowing the car down. As though getting one word out was all it took, a little of the tension leeched from him. "De train station, _chere._ I got tickets in case we'd ever need them when we put Henry on one."

"That was smart," she said, thanking God for Remy's paranoia. "Yeah. But—what _was_ that, back there?"

He started shaking again, so she murmured a 'never mind' and resolved to get the answer out of him when he _wasn't_ driving.

Soon enough they were pulling up to the busy train station. They parked the rental in an out-of-the-way spot, unloaded their bags, and approached the terminal. Rogue watched Remy out of the corner of her eye; muscles in his jaw were still twitching with strain. She put a hand on his arm to stop his forward progress. "Maybe I'd better talk to the ticket agent and porter?" She suggested carefully, trying not to let his nervousness seep over into her. He nodded gratefully, mutely handing over the tickets and assorted paraphernalia. When his hand touched hers, she concentrated on sending him some of her calm in that momentary contact. His eyes swept, startled, up to meet hers, and the merest idea of a smile passed over his features.

She smiled back and approached the friendly ticket agent in the window. The woman happily exchanged the tickets Remy had given her for new tickets heading to Bethel Park, PA—a destination Rogue picked purposefully at random. _They wouldn't expect us to go east, since we're from the South,_ she reasoned. _The easier it is to avoid them the better._ Just before she turned away, however, the ticket agent leaned forward and asked, a note of concern in her voice, "Is everything all right, dear? Your companion over there seems… unusually tense."

The tone was so caring and warm that she felt obliged to give an answer. "Uh—well—" she coughed, "not exactly. I mean—is everything all right, no, not exactly. You see, the guy I'm traveling with was in a really horrible accident, just terrible, and he doesn't like to be around a bunch of strangers yet, because he still can't move right and be at ease and I'm just so upset because I know it's a long train ride and I know there's nothing to be done about it but he's going to be in such tension and pain the whole time, it just _kills_ me…" she babbled on, not knowing _where_ this story was coming from—but from the sympathetic expression on the ticket agent's face, it just might get them a private seat if Rogue talked on long enough—key to avoiding being identified by any Ohioans who might have happened to catch the 11am news.

"Oh, you poor thing!" The woman exclaimed halfway through her made-up narrative. "Here, I'm going to get the conductor, I'm sure he can arrange something for you, young as you both are and in _such_ trouble, too…" She bustled off, and in short order, Rogue and Remy found themselves escorted onto the train ahead of the rest of the passengers.

They were shown into a nicely appointed private booth, one with an actual door and blackout curtains. One of the seats folded down into a cot "for the young man's injuries," (which comment from the conductor got her a raised eyebrow from Remy), and there was even a small refrigerator with sandwiches and fruit juices in the corner. The conductor showed them where the button to call for service was located, and with a tip of his hat toward "Miss Byrne, Mr. Gervais," bowed himself out.

"Wow." Remy commented, after a moment of stunned silence. "What the hell did you tell dem, _cherie?"_

She explained her sudden burst of loquacity. When Remy realized his inadvertently obvious nervousness could have gained them unwanted suspicion, and how Rogue had neatly turned 'suspicion' into 'sympathy,' he laughed, a laugh with a desperate edge to it, and gave her a sudden hug. "_Chere, _if I have to go running from death across de country, I'm glad you're the one I'm running with."

"Speaking of which," she replied, and leaned forward. "What did we run from? Was that some mutant-hating drive-by?"

"If only it was so simple," he said, and suddenly that tension was back, pulling his shoulders tight. "I saw the car around the corner just before it went by the house. _Chere_… It was one of Trask's men from the lab in that car."

A sick, cold feeling washed over her, and she instinctively moved closer to Remy. "Well," she said after a moment, when the shaking had passed, "at least he doesn't know where we're _going,_ only where we've been."

"Where are we going, anywhere? I saw that you switched out the tickets," he noted approvingly. "Very smart."

"Oh. We're going to—" She fumbled out one of the tickets from her pocket, and peered at it. "Bethel Park, Pennsylvania."

"To _where?"_ Confused red-on-black eyes met hers; she could only shrug and give him a wry smile.

"I have no idea where that is, besides 'in Pennsylvania somewhere,'" she confessed. "I really picked it at random."

He sighed, and gave her a smile—a small one, but real—as the train lurched into sudden motion. "I'll repeat it," he said contentedly. "If I'm running from people who want to kill me, I'm glad you're the one I'm running with. Ah, _ma ingénieux rose noire_…" He settled back against the seat, and Rogue copied his stance, hoping Pennsylvania would be safer somehow than Ohio. A small trembling fear inside her mind, however, predicted that it would not.

After a silent moment, Remy's hand found hers; and her inner shivering subsided at his trembling fingers' tenuous grasp, which she returned.

When the conductor checked on them twenty minutes later, they were both wearily asleep; he quietly drew the curtains and closed the door as the train hurtled toward the state border in the lengthening afternoon shadows.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Note to people who had questions about 'rose noire' meaning 'black rose,' (someone asked didn't that really mean 'black pink')… "Rose" is a noun in "rose noire," not an adjective. The French word for 'pink' _comes from_ the name of the flower, same as in English. The flower was named first, _then_ the color. Think about it: when we say something is "rose colored" we immediately think of a color approximating the rich color of the flower, not a pale peony color or anything. The French use the same word interchangeably, and the context determines which meaning holds true. Does that make sense? So in "rose noire" it means "the black variety of that particular kind of flower" not "black pink." It's like "the sky" versus "sky blue" … same deal. Sorry if I confused people. (and to whoever suggested "leve" instead of "rose," "leve" means "to get up/past tense" as in, "He rose from the chair.")


	17. “Floated midway on the waves”

Aaaaagh having two jobs and no "but I have school!" excuse bites. Especially since it means I can no longer write in-between classes :)

Ah, someone suggested that "Rose Noir" made a much better title for this than "Xanadu"—which, remember, I was never sure I was going to keep. Thoughts, everyone?

Uber-Romyness in this chapter, and also a Close Encounter… Enjoy!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 17: "Floated midway on the waves;"

_Somewhere along Interstate 376 West_

"…So, like, I _swear,_ the Professor totally has minions or something in, like, _every_ town in the US! I mean, how_ else_ could he have found out about possible mutant activity in some little out-of-the-way town in Ohio? I'm _from_ Ohio, and even _I've_ never heard of Ulrichsville! Still," Kitty finished, "at least we get to go shopping in Pittsburgh first."

Kurt shook his head, bemused, as he let Kitty's monologue run past him where they sat in the rearmost seat in the van. Scott and Jean sat in the front seats, singing along to the radio together (badly).

Finally, Kitty seemed to momentarily have run out of words—or breath—and Kurt was able to get a word in edgewise. "I think perhaps ze Prof was aware of it more because he's ze world's most powerful telepath?" he offered, smiling. "If he had happened to be looking at Ohio when the riot occurred, or soon after, he probably couldn't _help_ noticing ze disturbance, from what he told us."

"I'm just so jazzed that he's including _us_ on this recruitment mission, though! It's, like, not too often we get to go with Scott and Jean. And isn't it, like, _fab_ that they're finally well enough to take on this sort of thing again?"

"_Maybe_ they're well enough," Kurt cautioned her exuberance quietly. "Remember, that's one of ze reasons the Prof included us at all."

"Oh. Yeah…" Kitty said, subdued.

"But still, what are ze chances Professor X would have been able to get ahold of ze news broadcast about ze riot, _and_ that you'd recognize someone in it?"

"Well, I _think_ I recognized him—but I just can't remember where from!"

"But you'll know him when you see him again, right?"

"Oh, I'm positive," Kitty waved off his concerns. "I mean, I, like, _never_ forget a cute guy."

Kurt rolled his eyes, smiling. He looked out the window at the signs passing by, and called up to Scott, "Hey, Cyclops, isn't that the exit we vant?"

"Huh?" The young man at the wheel glanced at the sign, and began moving into the long exit lane. "Oh, yeah, thanks, Kurt. Don't worry; it's all under control." He breathed in slow through his mouth and repeated softly to himself, "It's all… under… control."  
Only Jean saw his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and the way his jaw was tightly clenched. This was the first recruitment mission he'd been judged fit to handle; she hoped it wasn't his last.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_The previous evening, on the train:_

A knock at the door startled Remy and Rogue awake. They both instinctively ducked for a second, wide-eyed, exchanged silent sheepish smiles, and then Rogue rose and answered the door. The solicitous conductor, whose nametag read "Snyder" stood outside, an apologetic look on his face, as he said, "Miss Byrne, Mr. Gervais, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I'm afraid I have to tell you the train has been delayed, and will not be arriving in Bethel Park until tomorrow morning, instead of later tonight as predicted."

"Why? What's wrong?" "But what do we do, den?" The questions tumbled out over one another. The conductor raised a placating hand.

"I know, from what the ticket agent told me in Ulrichsville, that you are injured, Mr. Gervais?"

"A recent accident, yes." Remy replied cautiously, not sure exactly what 'Roisin' had told them earlier.

"Well. There are a few options available to you, and other passengers who might require, ah… assistance… with a longer trip," Conductor Snyder said tactfully. "We _could_ try to get you to your destination by car—but I'm afraid we're on the side of a small mountain, and that would mean a bit of climbing for you and the others; it's an option we'd like to avoid if possible. However, if you _don't_ have to be in Bethel Park by any time before tomorrow morning, the railway does have cars available to be converted to sleeping cars—this, in fact, is one of them, so you wouldn't even have to move. We would, of course, provide you with meals, and compensate you for the time lost." He eyed them, slightly anxiously; obviously he hoped they'd take him up on the second offer, but was willing to attempt the first if they insisted.

Rogue glanced at Remy. He _seemed_ relaxed at the prospect of staying here, but… "Raoul?" She asked softly. "What do you think?"

"It's up to you, Roisin," he replied easily. "You're in charge."

Briefly, she touched his hand, concentrated on getting a general impression from him. He was relaxed, indeed, and he really did mean that he didn't care either way. She looked up at Snyder. "It's all right with us if we stay, then. We shouldn't aggravate your injuries, _should _we, Raoul." She nudged him unobtrusively with her foot.  
"Oh. No, it'd be much easier if we stayed here. Yes. Those'd better be decent meals, though, _homme,"_ he added jokingly.

A slight look of relief crossed Snyder's face—another pair who weren't going to cause trouble!—, and he waved slightly as he started to close the door again. "I'll be sure to drop by with blankets and your meals shortly," he said, and the door closed with a _click_.

The pair exchanged glances. "Well. Since we're not going to be staying overnight in a hotel after all, we'd better get a plan together for tomorrow," Rogue said briskly, and Remy nodded agreement.

"_Oui._ Dat'd be a good idea," he said. "What about going into Pittsburgh and getting some supplies? I t'ink dis Bethel Park isn't too far from de city." At her puzzled glance—how had he known _that?—_he shrugged. "Did a job once in de city, t'ought 'Bethel Park' sounded a little familiar, is all, _chere." _ He settled back and continued thinking aloud. "Anyway. 'f we can get to a city, we can get new clothes, some food… City's a great place to get lost, and to lose anybody following us."  
She stiffened, suddenly tense. "You think someone's following us?" He seemed awfully relaxed, if so.

"_Non._ But it never hurt to be too careful… After all, just b'cause I don't _t'ink_ someone's following us, doesn't necessarily stand to reason they _aren't."_

_Well, isn't _that_ just the most paranoid thing I've heard all day,_ Rogue thought, but before she could voice it, Remy continued speaking. "As soon as we get to de train station, though, _chere, _we've got to get you a hat."  
"A _hat?_ What for?"

"Y' _hair,_ _cherie, _y' hair. Too distinctive. And, _tres beau_ as it is, it's either hide it or cut it off—and I'm not letting you do _that_. I like it too much," he smiled at her.

She smiled back, remembering his reaction to her longer hair that first month in the WPP. _'De curls, dey suit y'… Make you even more _belle_…' _"No, I won't cut my hair," she reassured him aloud, holding that memory close. "But that means we've got to get you some sunglasses, or contacts, or something. I mean, if I have to go around with 'hat-head' all the time, _you've_ got to at _least_ have trouble not walking into things!"

"It's a deal, _chere,_" he said. "We'll hide each ot'er from all those who are against us."

Another bit of memory, again from those first days with Remy, floated across her mind: _'We be a little crazy together, den, _chere_…'_

_Together._ She repeated in her mind, reassured by the comforting warmth of the young man sitting solidly beside her. _Together, 'til we're both through all of this mess._

The rest of the evening they spent planning their next moves, and how best to get to New Orleans, since it was now obvious that that would be the only place they'd really be safe.

Late that night, as Remy breathed softly where he slept across the car, Rogue considered how odd it truly was, that she'd been forcibly taken from the one place that _should_ have been a refuge for mutants, only to find herself running with relief into a den of thieves… how strange the world worked sometimes.

But, oh, how wonderful, too! And what a companion to run with…

With that thought, she peacefully drifted into sleep.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The train rolled into Bethel Park the following morning around 11am, a repair crew having been dispatched to the site of the breakdown sometime during the night. Apparently, there was nothing suspicious about the breakdown itself, which was a huge weight off of both fugitives' minds.

Conductor Snyder personally made sure his 'special charges' not only had their belongings packed up and ready to go after the unexpected delay, but he also had considerately radioed ahead and made sure the bags and boxes were packed into a cab immediately upon arrival, which awaited them at the station. He had waved off their profuse thanks with murmurs about 'it's just my job' and 'pleasure to help polite young people,' but he didn't bat an eye when Remy slipped him a hundred dollar bill in his farewell handshake.

After buying a cap for Rogue and a pair of sunglasses for Remy, they climbed into the cab and directed the driver to take them to downtown Pittsburgh; he pulled smoothly into traffic, apparently more than familiar with the route, leaving the pair ample time to talk during the ride.

"So, Roisin," Remy muttered to her. "What de hell did you tell that conductor happened to me? You'd have thought I was badly hurt saving de world o' somet'ing, way he was treating us."

"Ah…" she flushed. "I think I was a little more than hysterical at the station, and happened to get a _really_ sympathetic agent at the ticket window, because I think she's the one who gave him the instruction to give us special treatment. Maybe. I don't know. Or maybe they recognized you and they're mutants. I dunno."

"We better hope that's not the case," he reminded her. "If _they_ recognized us, no telling who else did." His words were clipped, his voice tight at the very thought. She bumped her shoulder against his comfortingly, and he relaxed a trifle at the contact.

"In any case," she said, obviously changing the subject, "What's our plan now? I got us here, it's your turn now."

"Well. I t'ink de best right now would be to get into de city and get some different clothes. Remember how de WPP made you get rid of your—what did you wear before? Goth?—clothes, made us both wear suburbanite clothes? Dat's 'cause clothes make you blend in, or stick out, as you need 'em to. We need to make another wardrobe change. Maybe vacationers? College students?" He waggled his eyes at her, suggestive and comic at once. "Honeymooners?"

She rolled her eyes at him, and he inwardly exulted that he'd brought back the smiling spark to their hazel-green depths. For the past several days—really, since the riot, her whole demeanor had seemed more like right after they'd escaped from Trask, before they'd started to get to know one another. She'd been tense, and quiet, more withdrawn… Though in the interim she had become so accustomed to his touch that at least she hadn't gone back to flinching every time he came near her. He wasn't sure he could have borne _that_, what with his own overwhelming panic attacks.

He mentally shook himself from his thoughts at her reply. "I think 'college students' is the most believable—who vacations in February? And honeymooners—" she colored from her collarbones to her hairline—"Well, I, at least, look a little young to have been married."

He sat up straighter, indignantly. "Hey. You calling me old?"

"Well…." She hedged teasingly, then laughed, the bright sound drawing a glance from the driver. "Hardly. You're what, two and a half years older than me? Old? I don't think so. But then, we're talking about how old we _look,_ here…" she teased, which prompted him to poke her in the side—exactly where she was ticklish. She flinched, and squirmed violently, but there was nowhere to go in the cab's backseat. So she began to give as good as she got.

The rest of the cab ride went fairly swiftly, with them giving their cabbie the occasional moment of hilarity as they hurtled along the highway. When he finally dropped them in the city, he left them with an amused glance, a thanks for the tip, and the smiled comment, with shaking head, "Crazy college kids."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Within a couple hours of arriving, they had managed to change outfits completely, as well as secure another several suits of clothing for further traveling. Rogue was now attired in a to-the-minute fashionably close-fitting pair of jeans that were made of a fawn-colored, sueded fabric. They were warmer than they had looked on the rack, thankfully, since it was still very snowy in Pennsylvania in February, even in the middle of a city. She complemented the jeans with a dark blue, long-sleeved shirt which read, "Innocent until proven otherwise" (Remy'd picked that one out), a knee-length, fitted, dark grey woolen coat, and super-fashionable boots with high heels, which had metalwork etched all over them. The boots _were_ cool-looking, but they were of the very latest mode, and therefore rather uncomfortable. She also had her distinctive hair—well, the front part at least, with its white stripes—tucked into a knit cap; auburn curls peeked out the back to curl fetchingly around her neck, a reassuringly average style.

She grumbled about the utter ridiculousness of the general 'fashionableness' of the ensemble until a passing group of young guys whistled at her, making her blush and walk a little more confidently; ten seconds later, Remy casually draped his arm lightly across her shoulders. She hid a smile, and quashed the thrill that rose within her, thinking sternly at it, _Now, look. He's just being smart and trying to avoid being noticed overmuch. It's nothing else. _She also ignored the voice that said, softly, _What if it _is_ something else?_

Remy, for his part, had been able to get away with the sunglasses, loose-fitting blue jeans, a few layered shirts, winter-proofed sneakers, and a brown fleece coat that looked nothing like his duster. It only reached to mid-thigh, and had none of the particularly attractive lines of the longer coat (Rogue privately preferred the duster). Rogue had picked out the topmost shirt in retaliation for hers; it read, "Believe the rumors. It's all true." When he saw it, he looked mock-surprised and said, dramatically falling to his knees in the middle of the store, "_Cherie,_ please don't tell my _Tante _Mattie, dat's all I ask." She considered, then nodded seriously.

They held their composure for perhaps five seconds before laughing—perhaps with a tinge of hysteria, yes, but laughing all the same. After all, no one knew now where they were, not the Feds, not Trask, _no one_.

It was a heady feeling, and it made Rogue a bit giddy. She was practically bouncing beside Remy as they walked down one of the downtown streets—although that could be the effect of the double-espresso mocha lattes they'd bought at Starbucks, too. In any case, Remy noticed instantly when Rogue became much more still. Her head jerked straight up, her eyes widened, and she was obviously straining to hear something.

"Oh my God oh my god, _no_." The whisper was like a shout to Remy's close-listening ear. "It can't be… and of course they'd never send _her_ out on her own, _they're_ bound to be with her…"

Remy stopped, and steered her out of the way of foot traffic 'til they were against a wall. "_Chere_, what is it?"

She looked up at him, her expression warring between anger and fear. "It's Kitty… I'd know her voice and that valley-girl accent anywhere. And if _she's_ here, that means at _least_ Scott and Jean and Kurt are here, too. I can't let them know I'm here—I _won't_ go back to them! They didn't want me, well, I do _not_ want to be with people like them, but if they know I'm here they'll _make_ me go, I know it, I won't be left alone…"

Remy nodded his understanding, having heard how hurt Rogue was when the X-men had abandoned her in Trask's complex, and how _that_ abandonment had been on top of the general distrust and dislike she'd gotten from the team as a whole following her utter loss of control over her powers. All of _that_, of course, was built on top of an already shaky foundation of trust—shaky because of Rogue's onetime affiliation with the X-men's enemies. Remy understood all of that from getting to know her over the past months, and he, too, began looking for a place to hide.

"…and, ooh! Look! Isn't this, like, _gorgeous?"_

Remy's head turned at the faint sound, and Rogue hissed, "That's Kitty. They're getting closer!"

Inwardly, Remy cursed. There was no subtle way to get to a sufficiently hidden spot, or into a store, which would be disastrous if the X-men happened to enter. He had spotted the X-men's leader's distinctive red sunglasses even here, from half a block away—Rogue had described her former teammates well enough that he knew this could _only_ be Scott. The young man's haircut was utterly preppy, as was that of the leggy redhead clinging to his arm. His posture was ramrod-straight, and he walked with an air of one who knows he has authority, and feels the need to impress that authority on those around him. Remy could practically hear his supercilious sniff as he passed by a young woman dressed in _far_ too few clothes for the weather. Scott primly turned his eyes away from her as soon as his brain registered how relatively skimpily she was clothed—which took all of about point-two seconds.

An idea burst into bloom in Remy's brain as the foursome continued their stroll towards them. He grinned devilishly—_this_ idea was more like the Wild Prince, and less like the 'stay-under-the-radar-at-all-costs' paranoid man Trask had molded him into. Perhaps he wasn't so hopeless after all… Now, if he could only get Roisin to agree—and swiftly—to the plan. Perhaps he hadn't really better discuss it at all…

Smiling suddenly, he bent his head to hers. She still leaned against the wall, eyes still desperately searching for _anywhere_ to go, but finding none. _"Chere,_" he said softly, leaning in, in the way of a man whispering endearments to his loved one, "Do you trust me?" He said to the side of her neck.

She turned her head at the feel of his breath. "What?"

"Do you trust me? We can hide in plain sight as long as you don't punch me o' anyt'ing." He spoke rapidly.

"Of course I tru—"

"Good." He cut her off, then in one swift motion bodily picked her up, put her back solidly against the wall, wrapped one of her legs firmly around his waist, and placed his lips firmly over hers, his mouth demanding and coaxing at once. Of its own volition, her right hand twisted its way through his hair to pull his head closer to hers; his hair shielded both their faces from a casual glance. His hands, while still merely holding her up, _seemed_ to disappear beneath her new coat, and her other foot hooked itself halfway around one of his legs.

She was only barely cognizant of this, as it seemed the top of her head had exploded the moment his lips touched hers. A surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the new coat coursed through her; she wondered if this was how his cards felt after they'd been charged. _I really should let him come up with ways to keep us hidden more often…_

Remy, for his part, found his brain divided. One part was keeping track of where Scott and the rest were in relation to their position, and took note of the moment when a scoff and a soft comment about "behavior that… _disgustingly blatant, _and in _public_" emitted from the sanctimonious jerk. The rest of his brain was trying to tell his body that _Hey, now, you need to back off… You don't even know if she wants you that way for sure, and it's not fair to take advantage of the loneliness that she was _just now_ reminded of because _they_ showed up… _

Reluctantly, he began to loosen his grip on her as his hearing tracked the foursome down the street and safely around a corner.

Rogue let her feet drop back to the ground, pulling her hand back from it's entanglement in his hair with a look of embarrassment. She shrugged her coat around her more snugly, her body missing his warmth suddenly, willing her hands to keep to themselves, though they itched to be in his hair again. Why had he dropped her so soon? Was she that bad a kisser—granted, she hadn't _known_ he was going to do that, but still… Was the sensation of every atom imploding in her body hers alone, that he apparently had no reaction? That had been an excellent way, the _best_ way, to ensure that not only did Scott not look closely at them, he looked closely at anything _but_ them, and the others would be sure to follow suit. She glanced at him, then away. _He seems so composed. Maybe that _was_ just a—a physical action on his part, like moving a box, maybe he _didn't_ have the sort of reaction I did… And I can't ask him about it; what if this is just some unrequited lust on my part? I can't travel for what may be months with _that_ hanging over my head…_

Remy had dropped her quickly because he knew, from his own reaction—fire flashing through his veins—that if he didn't let go of her _right then_, his hands very likely would have crossed several no-no lines… And he noticed her self-conscious shrug of her coat, her hands pulling it closed around her. It did not bespeak a similar spark in her. Instead, she hugged her coat to her like a blanket, and wouldn't meet his gaze, a blush staining her cheeks. _I can't say anything to her about this, either; she'd think I was scheming my way into her bed…_ _But she looks so… tense. Did I remind her of something Trask did? _He worried suddenly, his mouth going dry with anxiety. _I know from personal experience that he didn't stick to only pain reactions in his twisted 'exeperiments…' _"So," he said, hoping his slight smile didn't look as strained as he thought it did, and swallowed, "So, now that we've managed to avoid Murphy's Law hitting us, what do you say we get de hell out of Dodge, _chere_?"

She seemed grateful he didn't allude to what had just passed. "Agreed," she said instantly—a bit too quickly, or was he just hoping? "Let's get back South, sugah. As soon as possible."

"Or sooner," he returned, and they smiled shakily at each other as they headed toward the depot, their camaraderie restored, but each privately carrying new tensions.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Yeah, I know. A bit shorter this chapter… BUT—next chapter, I think—! The Big Easy! At last. Yeah. So, stay tuned. And please review! Let me know what you love, what you hate, what you whatever… It helps feed the beast I call my muse. Who needs the help. Tell me what you'd _like_ to see, even if I don't seem to have an opening for it! Ta for now——Alara


	18. “And all who heard should see them there

Vote seems to be to keep the title 'Xanadu'…  
…Speaking of which, the fic really –is- named after the Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem; all the taglines in the fic are lines from the poem (though I think I'm running out!) , and the whole poem is a fabulous, crazy, drug-induced (no, really; he was on pain meds for injuries) work, partly about the futility of trying to outdo nature, and partly about the changes made in people when they encounter the supernatural—whether good or bad supernatural… oh, there's a ton in the poem, and I could write about it all day—and I have—but do a careful reading of it, really consider what each word, each phrase means, and hopefully you'll see a little of why I chose the poem to tag the fic with. Besides, of course, the addictively fun-to-say name (right, Eileen? wink).

Woooow… people have invoked the laws of economics, declared themselves my wannabe stalkers, begged me, cursed at me, pleaded with me, told me they're going to fail 'cos they're reading this instead of studying, danced, fallen off their chairs, and stayed awake til dark-o'clock-in-the-am with this fic… and that's just in the reviews!

Whew. Pretty damn amazing… and inspiring! So… now that floods, bank robberies, and assorted other Real Life Drah-muhs are over & done with (for now), on with the fic!

Yes. FI-nally, I know. Hope it's worth the wait. Next part is well on its way, also, just needs lots of fine-tuning…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 18: "And all who heard should see them there,"

They had gotten through the train depot with a minimum of drama, securing seats on a series of high-speed overnight commuter trains out of Pittsburgh heading southwest through West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. In Memphis, they boarded the popular "City of New Orleans" Amtrak train, and from there it was a straight shot of five hours—nearly four hundred miles—to the Big Easy. They'd been on the "City" for an hour now, and were mostly interested in keeping a low profile, since there'd been another possible 'mutant terrorist attack' the night before. It happened in San Francisco, but still, the general populace was spooked.

Rogue and Remy kept themselves busy quietly discussing how they were going to actually enter the city and get to the Guild seat. The problem, it appeared, was that Remy was no longer _certain _he knew the passwords and paths into the Guild seat, as they were changed periodically to keep things secure. The ones he'd given Henry Walter, for instance, were almost certainly out-of-date by now. "…_Non,_ chere, you walk up t' anyone and ask to be taken dere, best you'll get is a look like you're insane. At worst…" he sighed. "…At worst, well, you'll be occupied with medical bills for a long time, _if_ you survive at all."

A perplexed look crossed Rogue's face. "But I thought you _know _these people… work with them… why would they hurt you?"

"Because, _cherie, _for one, I always travel alone. Dey know that, and would be sure I was a plant just 'cause I'd have you with me. And walking in all casual-like, well, that isn't my style at all. That would seal that it wasn't me coming in, and probably neither o' us would survive whatever happened next."

Rogue slumped against her seat, defeated. "You mean we'll have traveled all this way to get to a safe place, and we can't even get in!" she complained. "What the sam-hill kinda insane trip is this, anyway?"

Remy shushed her as curious glances were aimed their way. "Hush, Roisin Dubh, I didn't say dere was _no_ way in… there's still de Ball in a few days."

"Wh—oh. You mean that fancy-dress party they sent the clothes for? How is _that _any better?"

"Because as I've said, _ma famille_ is known for never doing anyt'ing special wit'out being very dramatic about it. The Ball is the one place and time it wouldn't be out of character for me to simply…show up... without announcement. And a guest wouldn't be noticed at all; everyone's in costume."

"And you have to wear a costume to get in," Rogue sighed, recalling what he'd said about this particular shindig.

"_Exactement._" He said simply, dark eyes studying her, shoulders tensed. Suddenly she realized that he was afraid she'd refuse to go… and, damn him, his sense of… pride, or chivalry, or whatever-it-was, she was sure that if _she_ didn't go, _he_ wouldn't, either.

Rogue thought about it a moment, her eyes following the electrical poles flashing by outside the window. _Well, I suppose this _is_ the easiest way… and it really isn't fair at all for me to make it harder for him to see his family just because I don't want to wear a fancy dress… He misses them so much, I can tell. Every time he mentions the Guild, or New Orleans, his eyes look a little bit lonely and a little bit happy at the same time—probably because he misses them, but is going to see them again soon. Soon, that is, if I don't mess things up for him. I _can't _do that. I simply cannot inflict that pain on someone who's done so much to make _me_ feel—not alone—after all I've been through. After all _we've_ been through, I just can't be that petty, that bratty. Maybe at one time I could have been, but honestly, now… I just don't have it in me. Maybe Trask tortured it out of me, maybe Remy made me be so different a person that I lost that particular aspect of the Goth-me, maybe I just outgrew the teenage bitchiness I used to pride myself on… I don't know. I just know that, like it or not, I have to do this. For him, for his sake. He's been taking care of me all this time—I need to repay that favor; I need to let him try to become whole again… and just because I've lost my family doesn't mean I should deprive him of his. Besides…_she smiled to herself. _He did say he'd share…And now I'm dying to know what this 'Guild' thing is really like, after all those mysterious hints in his family's letters._

"Well," she said finally. "Where am I going to get my hair done, then? There's no way anything I could come up with could ever possibly go with that fabulous dress, after all."

His eyes lit up, and a smile seemed to wrap itself around his head as he laughed aloud in sheer elation, causing more than a few heads to turn their way. He ignored them as he caught her to his side in a brief one-armed hug. "_Merci, merci, merci!_" He laughed again. "Thank y', thank y', thank y," he continued whispering giddily. "Y' gon' love dem all, _chere_, and dey gon' love you for sure…"

Rogue grinned reflexively, and let him continue babbling at her, caught up in his suddenly bubbling-over ebullience. The happiness she felt at seeing _his _instantaneous giddiness was all the validation she needed to justify her decision. _I'm gonna do my best to make sure he stays this happy for as long as possible,_ she vowed to herself. _Even if I do have to wear a corset and fit it with whatever strange family customs they have, if that's what it takes, I'll do it. He, more than anyone I know, deserves happiness. And I'm not going to let anyone—not even me—stand in the way of that happiness. It's just not going to happen. _

His babble finally slowed, and he began excitedly telling her in earnest a little about the Ball, and what she'd have to learn to fit in seamlessly—which apparently, not only included corseting herself under that dress, but also dancing. And wearing _heels._ She laughed a little at herself, her willingness to go along with this…frippery. _The kids at the Institute would never recognize me,_ she thought, and the thought did not carry its usual dose of pain, only a faintly mocking twinge of familiar bitterness. _Heck, the pre-Trask Rogue would hardly recognize me, for all that. And maybe…maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe sometimes you just have to let some little things go to gain something bigger and better. I think exchanging some of my anger and bitchiness to gain security, and Remy as a friend, is a more than fair trade. I guess we'll see. _"So everyone's expected to dance, then?" she asked aloud, turning her full attention to Remy, and letting her musings fall to the back of her mind. "Exactly what kind of dancing are we talking about, Cajun…?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The train rocketed along for another three hours, 'til they were within a hundred fifty miles or so of New Orleans. The dining cart coming through had put an end to their conversation, and now they both drowsed in the mid-afternoon sun streaming in through the windows.

A small boy was wandering down the center aisle of the train, obviously bored and looking for anything interesting. He paused by Remy's seat, and curiously poked at the leather duster the young man wore (he had replaced the brown fleece as soon as the average temperature rose above 50 degrees). At the slight touch, Remy jerked awake, sitting bolt upright, his sunglasses sliding forward off of his face as he turned his head to see who was poking him. He relaxed when he realized it was just a kid, and leaned forward to pick up the sunglasses from the floor, eyes squinted against the sudden bright light. "Hey dere, _garcon,_ what're you up to?" he asked casually, glancing at the kid. The child stood, rooted, wide-eyed as Remy settled the glasses back onto his face. The little boy took a breath.

"MMMAAAAAAA!" he yelled suddenly, making Remy jump. Rogue's head popped up from where she'd been dozing against the window.

"What's going on?" She asked Remy, who shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know, I only said hello!"

"Billy? _Billy!"_ Came a woman's panicked voice from a few rows in front. In a few seconds, the body that belonged to the voice appeared, and scooped the boy up. "I told you not to…" her voice trailed off as he boy frantically whispered something in her ear. Her eyes grew wide, and suspicious. She turned to Remy, her mouth a firm line in her face. "Take off those glasses," she demanded harshly. Quiet settled in the car as people listened in: this sounded interesting!

Remy opened his mouth to reply to the rude demand, but Rogue beat him to it, leaning forward in her seat aggressively. "Like h—heck he's going to take off his sunglasses!" She amended what she was going to say, glancing at the little boy, who was hiding his face behind his mother's. "What business is it of yours, anyway, whether he wears sunglasses?"

"It's _my business_ to make sure my little boy isn't exposed to—to—_mutants."_ The mother hissed, making the word sound like _Nazis. _

"Good Lord, lady, _you're_ the one letting a four-year old wander a crowded train car by himself!" Rogue exploded, her temper getting the better of her. She forced herself to calm down a little. "What paranoid delusion is making you think he's a mutant, anyway?"

"My Billy said he has black and red eyes. Don't try to tell me a _normal_ person has black and red eyes."

"Sorry to tell ya, ma'am, but eyes _do_ come in black—" Rogue snapped back sarcastically, "which his are, and as for the red, he _happens_ to have overly sensitive eyes. The _second_ direct sunlight touches them, the blood vessels burst, which make his eyes seem red. That little boy who you were keeping _such_ a careful eye on, was poking him, and startled him awake. His sunglasses fell off, exposing his eyes to sunlight. So, yes, his eyes _are_ black and red, and I am _not_ going to make him hurt himself simply to satisfy your paranoid bigotry! We _will_, however, find a place to sit where we _won't_ be pestered by small children and their small-minded parents. C'mon, Raoul." She stood icily, grabbing her shoulder bag and the box with the Mardi Gras masks as Remy, still flabbergasted at her sudden vicious defense, scrambled to grab the rest of their bags and get to the door at the end of the car.

The entire encounter had taken—maybe—thirty seconds. _Dieu, she's quick,_ he thought, still somewhat dazed. _But she shouldn't have caused a scene; now we need to get out of here._ He had seen the ugly looks on some of the other passengers. Suiting action to thought, he gripped her arm and propelled her through the door to the little anteroom with the bathroom and the emergency outside exit. He locked the door leading back into the car.

She leveled a look at him, still pissed off, though not at him. "What? Why are we in here?" She asked, more bitingly than she had intended._ Calm down, already! _She told herself. "Sorry. Uhm. Why _are_ we in here, though?"

"Because we've got to get off dis train, as soon as possible." Remy said. "While you were facing off with de Mother of the Year in there, there were a couple of people who looked like they'd happily pound on someone who only _might_ be a mutant, an' nevermind about de proof. And with Trask still after us, I'm not taking any chances 'til we're back in de Big Easy."

"Oh." She said quietly, guilt stinging her. "So how do we get off—and without setting off the alarms?" She gestured at the outside door, which had a red push bar on it, emblazoned with the words EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND.

He gave her a look, pulling a tiny pair of scissors out from some hidden pocket. "Please. _Chere,_ I could kill dis door alarm in my sleep." He reached over her head to the box above the door which housed the alarm and pulled off the cover. "Jus' one snip…" _Snip._ "…and no alarm." He placed the cover back on, hiding the wires cleanly sliced in two. "Now, we just have to wait 'til the train goes around a bend or something. It'll have to slow down, and we can just jump off."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"…Not if you do it right." He shrugged the question off. She noticed, however, that he hadn't exactly said 'No, it's not dangerous at all!' Not a reassuring thought. _Well, it's not like there's anything else we can do…_She figured, and settled in to wait with him. Soon enough, the creak and whine of the brakes being applied shuddered up through the floor. Remy eased the door open, peering outside at the tracks ahead. "Ah!" he exclaimed in satisfaction. "It's even better than I thought. We're heading right at a northbound freight train."  
"What?" Rogue squawked, gripping his arm. "You mean we've gone through all this and we're going to die in a stupid train crash!"

"No…" Remy chuckled. "Sorry. No. There are sidings all along the track for exactly this reason, and freight trains get right-of-way. That means that _this_ train is going to have to almost stop. We'll be able to step right off like it was at de train station, easy as anyt'ing. Someone up dere must like y', _chere,_ I never get dis kinda luck."

"Luck, sure." Rogue rolled her eyes. "Just let me know when we're…uh… 'stepping off,' all right?"

"Sure." The train began to slow drastically. Remy opened the door wide, and Rogue could see the passing countryside change from a blur to actual trees and bushes. It slowed some more, and suddenly their car shifted abruptly to the right. "That'll be the siding," Remy commented. "Just a couple minutes more…Here, help me grab our things." They had reduced their baggage to just three bags and the box while in Pittsburgh, and he was glad of it now. "Almost time," he said aloud, watching the scenery pass by more and more slowly.

A sudden pounding came from the other side of the car door, startling both of them, and a man's angry voice was heard: "We know you're in there, muties! You can't hide in there forever!" The pounding resumed again, and Rogue swore the door was bending beneath the furious blows.

They exchanged a quick look. "Oh look, it's time to get off now," Remy announced tensely, grabbing her by the arm. "Now, _chere_, try not to scream, and try to roll when you hit de dirt. We're not going fast, but we are jumping down about six feet," he cautioned her.

"And you're telling me this _now_!"  
He grinned brightly. "Time to go…" He stepped off the train.

Rogue risked a heartbeat to look back at the door, just as a fist crashed through the flimsy board and scrabbled around for the lock. "Oh boy… Yep. Time to go," she muttered to herself, and before she could think about it, threw herself into open air.

For an instant, it felt like she was falling from a high distance. Then she was on the ground, rolling instinctively, trying to keep clear of the train wheels clicking by quickly—_This is jumping off when it's 'slow,' Remy?—_and it was over. She didn't move until the freight train had roared by, and the passenger train they'd been on was out of sight. She sat up, and looked back along the tracks. Remy was walking toward her; he was farther away than she'd thought, and she heaved herself to her feet shakily, ignoring the small cuts from the rocks that lined the gravel bed of the railway. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she bet she'd hurt all over once the adrenal high wore off.

"_Chere?_ You all right?" Remy was closer now, cleaning his sunglasses off on his shirt; somehow, he hadn't broken them in the jump.

"I—I just jumped off of a train," she said numbly.

"So you did, and a good job, too," he returned amiably, now within regular speaking distance.

"I just jumped off a friggin' _train!"_

_Ah. She's in shock,_ he realized. "I had about de same reaction de first time I did it," he said aloud. "I think dis reaction is normal."

"Normal? _Normal?_ Remy, 'normal' is _staying on the train _'til it's at a _train station. _Not jumping off it in the middle of Nowhere, Louisiana!" she nearly yelled at him, obviously very wound up.

"Acutally," he said, looking around, "I t'ink we're still in Mississippi."

"And what's more—What?" she asked, entirely distracted from her hyper freak-out session. "What makes you say that?"

"De sign," he said, nodding toward an old town limit sign: Woodbury, Mississippi Welcomes You. Please Keep Our Town Beautiful—Recycle.

They looked around. Streams, trees, lots of grass, and the train tracks met their eyes. There were even some birds and squirrels.

No town.

"Uh… Stupid question, but… Where's the town?"

"I dunno," Remy shrugged. "I think we should stick with de train tracks though… They're bound to go through some town at some point, right?"  
"I suppose…" Rogue said doubtfully. "In any case, I don't have any better ideas."

"Let's start walking, then."

They shouldered their bags and started along the tracks. They hadn't been walking for more than fifteen minutes, though, when Remy's head shot up. Rogue didn't even have time to ask, 'What?' when he grabbed her by the wrist, dragged her over the high railway embankment, and started running as quietly as possible through the long, waist-high grass. He jerked his head around, and just as suddenly flattened them both against the ground, hurriedly fluffing the stalks upright around them. When she opened her mouth to speak, he covered it with his hand warningly, most of his attention on the rail line. She frowned at him, wondering if he was having a panic attack.

Then she heard it too: voices echoed weirdly from the train tracks; somehow, Remy had heard them coming. She strained, and could just pick out some of the conversation over the sound of her pulse in her ears.

"—Hal, I… they're crazy…—body who'd jump… train…—ldn't walk away."

"Yeah. No… or bags or… blood. Why would… here, anyw— …nothing for three miles…"

"Crazy talk… mutants on… train. Didn't Ed say someth—…they all fly? Why… be on… train?"

Laughter, then, "Let's… back. Nothing here."

They stayed where they were, flat against the sun-warmed earth, for some moments more, and Rogue shuddered as a wisp of memory—the months in Trask's keeping—wafted across her mind. There, too, mere sound had been enough to freeze her to the ground, hadn't it? She shook herself, eyes closed. _Stop. You're not there anymore, and you're only days away from being safe, _really _safe._ Her heart rate slowed as she calmed herself, and opened her eyes to see Remy also visibly calming himself.

She swallowed against a dry throat, and gave him a wan smile. "Good ears."

He returned the smile shakily. "T'anks. Let's find dis town, now, hey?"

"Sounds like a plan."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

About forty-five minutes later, their weary feet finally led them to a nondescript little town just to one side of the railroad tracks—the very same Woodbury. By the looks of the antiquated station, this was no longer a popular destination by train. By the looks of the rutted roads they walked along, it wasn't a popular destination by any other conventional means of transport, either.

"Huh," Rogue commented aloud, looking around. "I didn't think they made towns like this anymore."

"Hm?" Remy turned to her.

"Almost suffocatingly small, and very homey, and all—all _Leave It To Beaver._ Kinda reminds me of Caldecott," she said. "At least, a small Caldecott from maybe thirty years ago." They walked on for a few minutes, glancing down side-streets as they passed them. "It's not a bad thing, you know," she said. "The smallness, I mean. People tend to be… nicer, in the small towns, even to outsiders."

A sudden furious screech nearly cracked the windows of the house they were passing, and a suitcase full of clothes suddenly catapulted out the second story window.

"Nicer. Right," Remy commented sardonically.

"Well, obviously this is an excep—"

"An' you kin just _keep_ ya damn floozy sleazy city _sec_retary!" A woman's voice screamed from inside the house. "Don't even think about coming back heah; I'm getting rid of all yo' shet! Mah Momma was always right about you!" A telephone was hung up with such force the bells inside chimed. Right on the heels of the sound, a thirtysomething woman stomped out, slapping the screen door open. She stomped across the wide porch, sat down hard on the front steps, fumbled out a cigarette, patted her pockets frantically for a moment, and burst into sobs.

"Goddamn piece of… Even took mah lighter… Ooh, he's really gon' _pay,"_ she mumbled through her tears.

Rogue and Remy stopped stock-still, less than ten feet away. Remy cautiously approached her. "Eh… need a light, _madame?" _

"Sure, sure," She said snippily, holding out the cigarette with one hand, and wiping her face with the other. She didn't even notice that Remy didn't get out a lighter or anything; she just accepted it, took a long, hard drag on it, exhaled a cloud of smoke, took another drag, wiped her eyes one last time, sat up straighter, stuck out her hand and said, "Thanks. Name's Thelma Siddons. Well, it's _gonna_ be Siddons again, once I'm rid of that good-for-nothing sonofabitch soon-to-be-_ex_-husband of mine. Ya'll look new in town. Just passing through?"

"Uh, something like that," Remy answered warily. "Look, we just need to know whether any buses or anything run by here? We don't want to—hm—disturb you."

She snorted, brown frizzy hair falling in her eyes as she tossed her head. "Disturb? Naw. On'y one 'd 'disturb' me now is that good-for-nothing sonofabitch soon-to-be-_ex_-husband of mine." She finished the cigarette, much calmer now, stood, and looked them over. "C'mon in, have a drink while I call up the bus time table, ya'll look thirsty. 'Scuse the mess," she added over her shoulder, as they followed her, "I'm moving all of my good-for-nothing sonofabitch soon-to-be-_ex_-husband of mine's shat out of the house. 'Bout time, too."

Remy nodded sagely, and widened his eyes at Rogue. _What have we gotten into, here?_ He asked her with his eyes. She shrugged back.

Thelma poured out some sun-brewed tea, and waved in the general direction of the refrigerator. "Help yourselves to ice, or whatever," she said, "while I call the bus line."

"Thank you," Remy said softly, as she picked up the abused phone and dialed.

Rogue edged over to the freezer and quietly took out some ice cubes, hoping Remy was feeling as awkward as she was, listening in on the conversation.

"Mary? Thelma. Yes. Yeah. Oh, no… No, the good-for-nothing sonofabitch soon-to-be-_ex_-husband of mine isn't coming back here. Yes, if he does show his face plant one on him. No. No! Anyway, I'm calling 'cause there's a couple of kids walking through town, looks like they've been traveling a while… yeah. Probably. Anyway, what's the bus schedule like this week? Oh? Oh. Yeah, it does that, doesn't it… Mmhmm. Okay, I'll tell 'em. …Do what? Oh. _Oh."_ She started laughing. "That's positively evil, Mary. I love it. Sure, I'll offer. How much—how _little?_ You think I can get away with it? –Bob will? Oh marvelous. Fan_tas_tic. Hahaha! Yeah. Ok. Yeap, see you then. Uh-huh. Bye. Thanks again."

She hung up the phone—the bells didn't ring this time—and turned to them. "That was my cousin Mary, who works at the P.O., who gets the bus schedule every Monday. Now, apparently, kids, there was supposed to be a bus in at five o'clock this afternoon, but the damn alternator quit working again, and they need to get a new battery in _again._ So the bus won't be here 'til late tomorrow."

Rogue sighed, and asked, "Well, is there a place we could rent rooms overnight?"

Thelma winced. "Well, there _is_ a _mo_tel down the road… But I _probably_ wouldn't even send my good-for-nothing sonofabitch soon-to-be-_ex_-husband of mine there. Probably. It's really not a good place. Run by _out_siders." She nodded significantly. Rogue caught herself nodding understandingly—Caldecott was the same way, a town so close most of the families were second cousins thrice removed, or something, and anyone who couldn't prove a blood or marriage attachment was an 'outsider' and therefore not _quite_ made of the same stuff as everyone else. Rogue and Irene had been 'outsiders,' for instance, but it hadn't really affected their lives; it simply was the way things were.

"There _is _another way for you to get where-ever you're going, though," Thelma added, a sly gleam entering her eye. "It was Mary's idea… Either of you know how to handle a motorcycle?"

"I do…" Remy answered cautiously. "Why?"

"How much spare cash you have on you?"

"Why do you want to know that?" Rogue interjected.

Thelma grinned. "Well, my good-for-nothing sonofabitch soon-to-be-_ex_-husband rides—'scuse, _rode_ one up 'til he decided to run off with his floozy of a secretary a couple months ago. An' jest guess _who's_ name is on the official title?"

"Yours?"

"Yeap. _He_ didn't want to have to pay extra _in_surance, so he put it on _my_ name. Well, Bob, Mary's husband, he's a big-time lawyer in the city, well he's gonna make me up the paperwork so's I can sell that there bike in the garage for whatever I want. So, how much spare cash you got on you?"

"Two hundred," Remy lied—he actually had quite a bit more, courtesy of his father's letters—"but you can't sell a bike for that!"

"I sure can if I want to," Thelma returned. "And if you want it, it's yours. Out in the garage. Take a look. There's even space for your bags and what-all."

"No, really…" Remy said, but stopped speaking when Thelma fixed him with a glare. "All right, I'll _look," _he said aloud, "but I am _not_ buying dis bike…" he muttered to Rogue, who bit back a laugh as they went around back to the garage.

It was a nice bike. It was, in fact, a _very _nice bike, in excellent condition, with all the bells and whistles… No. He was emphatically _not_ interested in ripping off this angry woman who'd just—however happily—lost her husband. Especially not when he'd be getting it at less than a fiftieth of cost… No. _No._

Thelma came out and started working him over, telling him how much of a coup the receipt would be to show her good-for-nothing sonofabitch soon-to-be-_ex_-husband, and how good the bike was… No, he told her pleasantly but firmly. No, he couldn't, he _wouldn't, _and would she just please tell them where _would_ a good place to spend the night be? It was three pm already and they'd better get rooms someplace… No, the bike was gorgeous, nothing was wrong, but he could not in good conscience buy it from her.

An hour later they were tearing down the road on the bike, safely anonymous in enveloping helmets, Remy in his duster, Rogue in Thelma's biking jacket, her arms tightly wrapped around Remy's waist as they ripped along. Once they got to the highway, they quickly saw signs: New Orleans, 132 miles.

Despite feeling like he had just, against his will, ripped Thelma off—she'd eventually taken five hundred, though it was far too little—the sight of that sign lifted Remy's heart. _I'm coming home!_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A HUGE THANK-YOU TO ALL REVIEWERS—you REALLY, honestly, truly inspired me to write write write! See, it does work.

Okay… so… comments, anyone?


	19. “Then reached the caverns measureless to

Ok, people, I have a _very good_ reason for Remy being reluctant to rip Thelma off in Chapter 18. For the time being, however, just file it under "good influence of Rogue" or something if it bothers you that much, hm? …Oh, and now, courtesy of one reviewer, I can add "I've been direly threatened if I don't update" to my List of Reasons to Update Xanadu. So another tick on the list, there.

And, no, they've got their bags with them, I made sure of it… check Chap 18 if you think I did forget that… let me know. And the Cerebro thing still applies—Xavier has to know she's alive _and _at least be 'looking' in her general direction in order to find her… Didn't I explain this already? Hmmm….

Oh—and _sweeeeet!_ I got a review in gaelic! Woohoo! That made my _week,_ I'll tell ya. _Go raibh maith agat,_ silversyren! It was particularly amusing as I happened to check that at work during a slow time, and I just cracked up, and my coworkers are like, 'hey what's so funny' and I was like, 'check this out! This is soo fun!' and they're like what the f-ck does THAT say! And why are people threatening/praising/making strange suggestions to you? Hahahahahhhaaaa. Anyway. Thanks! All your reviews keep me moving, seriously!  
Ah! And in an utterly bizarre, creepy, my-ESP-must-be-working-overtime (Seriously!) instance of 'Life Imitating Art,' _didn't _I just get an invitation to a wedding where—seriously—the reception is a MASKED BALL? I swear it! So… now I'm a little creeped out at the way that happened to fall in with my story… 'cos I've been writing this thing since, what, February of '05, and the Really Serious Wedding Planning (as she's been terming it) didn't start 'til about July of that year… anyone else get weirded out at that? Anyone?

Sorry about the lateness of update—I was out of the country in _Nova Scotia_, aka _Acadie — _where many Cajuns claim many-generations-removed ancestry! SO much fun there…

Well, anyway, enjoy the chapter! --Alara

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 19: "Then reached the caverns measureless to man,"

_Three days later, in Bayville:_

"…And the shops were just, like, _amazing._ _So_ cool. I _totally_ wish you could have come—I totally needed another girl along who would fully _understand_ what an _experience_ the shopping was!" Kitty wrung her hands, illustrating what an utter agony not having a shopping companion in Pittsburgh had been.

"Doesn't Jean like shopping anymore?" Amara questioned, from where she was perched on the other bed in Kitty's room. "I mean, before… everything…" she waved her hand expressively, "she was Type A, sure, but she still liked mall-trolling and stuff."

"I guess she still likes shopping," Kitty considered aloud, absently chewing on a nail, "but, like, the whole trip, I swear she didn't take her eyes off Scott _once,_ not even to see what set Scott off on a ten-minute tirade that once—she just assumed it was as risqué as he thought, and nodded with, like, _every_ word that passed his mouth. It was kinda sickening—it's like she's afraid to have her own opinion anymore in case she accidentally hurts anyone else."

Not easily distracted by serious, thoughtful, psychological dissections of their much-abused team leaders, Amara pounced on the juicy tidbit in Kitty's ponderings.

"Ooh, _what_ was so risqué the oh-so-prim-and-pure _Scott _even deigned to notice it?"

"Ohmigod, I _totally_ forgot to tell you!" Kitty gushed, the thoughtful moment washed away by the allure of gossip. Amara leaned forward to listen intently as Kitty hit full gossip-speed—insanely fast speech, punctuated by breaths and 'like's. "We're, like, shopping—well, _I_ was shopping, Kurt was goofing off, as usual, Scott was being all paranoid-they-could-attack-us-any-second-so-keep-a-look-out, and Jean was watching Scott—so _I_ was shopping, and I stopped to look at this _adorable_ little place where they were selling scarves. Well, there was this girl sitting at one of those outdoor cafes—in _January,_ can you believe it?—and she was, like, practically hanging out of her top. Like, seriously, another half-inch lower and she'd have been breaking several laws, as well as risking a _really_ embarrassing case of frostbite. Well Scott about dropped his glasses when he saw _her,_ and he, like _reallyquickly_ looked around for something else to look at. _You_ know how he does when he's embarrassed." She paused, and gave Amara an expectant look, waiting for encouragement.

Obligingly, Amara shooed her on. "Yeah, yeah, I know how he gets, go _on_ already! There's no _way_ that's all."

"No, it _isn't. _Ohmigod, just wait 'til I tell you. Well, so, he looks around and wouldn't you know it, the _next _thing he sees is this couple standing near the wall of one of the shops, and the guy is like, leaning _really_ close in, and he was, like _totally_ built, you could tell even though he was wearing this really hideous coat. Like, seriously, where did he _get_ that thing? It was, like, totally ugly. And _she's_ looking like she stepped out of _Vogue_ or something, like, I totally _need_ to have those totally sweet boots she was wearing, honestly. And they must've been, like, totally madly passionately or something, 'cos practically as soon as Scott looks at _them_ instead of the girl, the guy—I _swear_—picks her up and just _plants_ her against the wall—I mean, it was _totally _hot, you just _had _to be there—and her arms _and legs_ just _pull_ him against her—and all in, like, full daylight, and all! Augh." Kitty rolled her eyes. "It was _so_ romantic, you could, like, _completely_ tell they were in serious L-U-V, love. I swear, the snow around them, like, friggin' melted for a block around."

Amara was laughing. "Oh, man, I bet Scotty blew a gasket."

"Ohh, he _totally_ did—we had to listen to a lecture about 'this heathen city' for like, ten or fifteen minutes! Between the girl and the couple, he's now _convinced_ nothing good can come from Pittsburgh. But, you know," a more serious look crossed Kitty's face. "Something's been bothering me about that couple…"

"What?"

"I dunno… See, I snuck my head back around the corner to see if they were still making out a minute after we passed them—hey, sue me, so I'm curious." She said defensively, at Amara's look. She'd forgotten the princess could still be somewhat prudish at times, despite her not inconsiderable influence on the other teen. "Lemme think. Well, they weren't kissing anymore, and I _swear_ to God he was blushing, he had his head turned so she couldn't see his face—he was turned in my direction, and—OH. MY. GOD. I need to see the Professor, _now_." With that, Kitty tumbled off her bed and phased through the door at a dead run, ignoring Amara's wails of, 'Kitteee! Wait up!'

Two hours later, a rather confused Logan was on his way to Pittsburgh, to try to track down a mutant who'd been at one particular spot two days before. The same mutant, _maybe_, who Kitty _maybe_ recognized from the New Year's Riot news video—though the valley girl still couldn't remember _where_ she recognized him from, only that she was pretty positive it was something important. "Geeze, Chuck," he muttered to himself, "Yer takin' _Half Pint's_ recommendations on where to find new talent? Spare me next time."

Well, he _thought _he muttered it to himself. _Logan, please be assured I would not have sent you to find this young man if I, too, did not believe it to be important… though, I, too have difficulty ascertaining _why_ he is important. So if you cannot accept Kitty's hunch, please bear with mine instead._

"Understood, Chuck…" Logan replied, and ignored the sigh and usual comment: _I do wish you'd stop calling me 'Chuck.'_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"What is this place?" Rogue asked, as Remy produced keys from nowhere and proceeded to unlock the five bolts on the door of the townhouse they eventually pulled up to, in a fairly nice area just outside the famous French Quarter.

"A Guild safe house, but one only for use of _de famille_," he replied absently, making sure he remembered which keys went to which apparently identical lock. If he got them wrong, or unlocked them in the wrong order, they'd bring a whole lot of trouble and Thieves their way, and Remy couldn't safely reveal himself until the Ball, some three days hence.

A few moments later they were inside, and Remy carefully re-threw the bolts as Rogue placed their few bags at the bottom of the stairs, carefully moving the box with the jewelry and masks onto a wide table in the foyer. She turned expectantly as the last lock slid home. "Well? What now, Cajun? We're on your turf, now."

"Not quite," Remy replied absently, his gaze distant. "But soon, _chere._ First things first, though… feel like somet'ing to eat?"

"There's food?" Rogue asked cautiously. "I'd have thought a safe-house would be pretty empty."

"Kinda useless to guard against T'ieves when you _are_ de T'ieves, _hein? _No, we keep a good supply o' everyt'ing a T'ief c'ld want, plus a few he prob'ly didn't think of, at all o' our safe houses."

They ventured into the kitchen, where, sure enough, there were the makings of more than a decent meal. They shared the chore between them, eventually ending up with a passable plate of _etouffe_, which wasn't too bad, given their relatively limited resources. After eating and getting a chance to relax after the adrenaline-burning motorcycle ride, Remy looked at Rogue consideringly for a moment. Then he pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his duster, and carefully broke the seal on it.

"Where'd that come from?" Rogue leaned forward interestedly.

"Was in dat last batch of letters from _mon pere,_" Remy replied, his red eyes scanning the letter's contents quickly. "Wasn't supposed to open in unless we didn't make it back to New Orleans in time for de Ball."

"So why're you opening it now, then?"

"It occurs to me we might need some o' dese passwords if we're gon' get you ready for the Ball on time."

She sat up indignantly. "What do you mean, 'get me ready'?"

"I told you, on the train. Dancing, and proper address, things like that. Not to mention getting your dress ready, and shoes, and your hair…"

"Oh. I thought _you'd_ be helping me with the dancing and whatever."

He gave her a wry look. "_Ma chere,_ I may know a lot, but _I_ do not know how to do these things in a corset and heels. For that, we will need Vivienne. She is the best." His voice lent a weight the words themselves didn't merit.

"The best, huh…" Grumbling to herself, she sat back in her chair. "So what does that letter have to do with this… _Vivienne?"_ She couldn't help the sarcasm in her voice; here they'd only barely gotten to a safe place, and Remy was suggesting he bring her around to all sorts of strange people.

Remy replied in clipped words, annoyed at her smart tone. "De letter is what will get her to come here, discreetly, and mention no word of what, or who, she sees to _anyone_ until de Guild Ball is done. It has the passwords we'll need to get through to her, and she, in turn, can get us what else we need. But—and Roisin, dis is _important_—she can be very temperamental, and will take any sarcasm as insolence, and refuse to help us. Piss her off badly enough, and she'll gossip about us in the streets, and we will not make it out of N'Orleans alive. Do you understand me?" His eyes blazed from their inky depths; she was momentarily fascinated by their flame, and chilled at the earnestness in his voice. He wasn't kidding—he believed, at least, that this Vivienne was no one to play around with, and if _he_ believed it, she'd better too.

For both their sakes.

"Sure," she said softly. "I'll kiss her arse if that's what it takes. I'm sorry… I just…" She shrugged her inability to express what she was feeling. "I'm sorry. I'll behave."

He sat back in his chair. "Good. I'll have her here first thing tomorrow morning; we don't have much time. And I could use a haircut, too." He stood abruptly, and began clearing the table. "Well, let's get this all cleaned up, I'll call Vivienne, and den we can get a good night's sleep, 'cos the next few days are going to be busy. Especially wit' Vivienne here," he added.

"Sure," Rogue replied softly, and reminded herself that they _were_ in his 'home territory, and she _had_ promised herself she'd make sure he saw his _famille_ again, whatever it took on her part, in repayment for that unpayable debt of getting her out of Trask's hands.

Still, she didn't sleep well that night.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Chap. 20 is up, so read on, MacDuff! Oh… and you rest of the readers… :)


	20. “That with music loud and long,”

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 20: "That with music loud and long,"

At eight the next morning, a rapping at the front door startled both from their contemplation of their mugs of coffee.

"That'll be Vivienne," Remy said offhandedly, as he rose to answer the door.

"Isn't this kinda early in the day for social calls?" Rogue asked him, honestly startled by the hour.

"Well, yes, but she's here to work, not to socialize." Remy said, and opened the door to reveal one of the most stunning women Rogue had ever seen. From the immaculately groomed blonde hair to the perfectly painted fingernails to the Manolo Blahniks on her feet, Vivienne exuded Fashion, with a capital F.

With steps that made no sound on the floorboards, despite the spike heels, she strode in the door, letting it close behind her. As soon as it did, she swept into a swift, elegant curtsey, rose, and kissed Remy on both cheeks, exclaiming, "Ah! _Mes jeunes qui errent le prince!_ You are back at last!"

Rogue's fledgling French was good enough to translate that, at least: My young wandering prince, she'd called Remy, and not for the first time, she really wondered, what was she getting into with this 'Guild' business?

She had no more time to ponder that, however, as the woman whirled and pounced on her, also with kisses to both cheeks. "Oh, _la rose noire!_ How wonderful! Now, I am going to get _mon ami_ Remy's hair trimmed—and that beard is going, I'll tell you now—"

"Good," Rogue interjected.

"—and then you and I will have some… girl talk, _n'est pas cela si?_"

_Isn't that so_, Rogue translated silently, and realized that for all her glamour, the woman seemed kind enough, if effervescent in manner. A bit like a super-refined Kitty, actually, without the ditziness. And a _lot _of money.

While Vivienne was off working her craft on Remy, 'Roisin' busied herself sitting at the kitchen table, memorizing the list of etiquette-proper forms of address for some of the people she'd be meeting at this Ball. Remy had written it up last night, with various notes added in the margins, such as: _Anyone I don't introduce you directly to, call 'sir' or '_madame_,' but add nothing more to how you address them. Anyone whom it is vitally important you give the proper greetings to is listed on this paper, and I assure you, I will not separate myself from you at the Ball—no offence, _chere_, but some of them would tear you apart out of sheer spite, and because they do not know you._

She felt a bit dizzied looking at all of the things she was expected to memorize; there were at least two dozen individual people listed here, and five of them had no less than seven 'appropriate' forms of address she would be able to use; the others had two or three apiece. And Remy had warned her about accidentally mixing up anyone's titles. "One t'ing I do not want my homecoming bringing is a return to de War, _chere._ It's taken too much from _ma famille_ already." His eyes had been dark as he said this to her, and she shivered again at the memory, her body gaining tension at the thought of yet more fighting, more violence.

She was jolted from her reverie by a soft touch on her arm. Reflexively, she shot from the chair to end in a crouch around the table's corner, only to realize it had been Vivienne, who did not seem perturbed at her über-defensive reaction to a touch. One of her elegant eyebrows arched consideringly, and she murmured, as to herself, "Mmm… she has grace; perhaps this will not be so very difficult after all."

"I'm sorry about that," Rogue apologized, rising quickly. Vivienne shrugged.

"Better you have those reactions and not need them, den the ot'er option," she pointed out carelessly, a slight smile curving her generous mouth. Now. I 'ave finished wit' _mon royal l'un,_ and so it comes to be your turn, now." She stepped aside, indicating the doorway expectantly.

Remy's voice came around the corner as he walked toward the kitchen. "Quickly now, _ma cherie,_ she does not bite and we have little time."

Rogue bit back an involuntary gasp as he came into the light. His previously unkempt hair had been cut and trimmed so that it no longer fell into his face; instead, it was cut so that it would lay back, more away from his face, to fall in a neat queue down his neck. A few strands still managed to escape the tail, though, giving him a rakishly handsome—dare she think, _sexy?—_look as they chased his glowing eyes. The goatee had been entirely annihilated, leaving him clean-shaven; she could see the strong line of his jaw, the stubborn chin, the deliciously firm-yet-soft mouth. She trembled again, but for an entirely different reason: _this_ man, _him_ she could envision a master thief, a wooer of women, a devil in disguise.

_Lord, I am _never _going to fit in with his crowd, if _that's _what the Thieves' Guild is like, _she thought faintly, as Vivienne hustled her away and out of Remy's sight. _And if the women look half as good, he's never going to look at me again…_ That last wistful thought was chased away, though, by Vivienne's brisk voice. "Well, _Rose Noire,_ let us get started and get you ready for de Ball…"

The next thirteen hours were a grueling masterclass of etiquette, address, and various experiments with hairstyle and makeup for the Ball, followed by an equally agonizingly exacting evening meal, which involved flatware Roisin couldn't even _name_, let alone use—but by the end of that meal, she could. _And _through her mask, besides. Vivienne, she found, utterly deserved her reputation for being 'the best.' By ten o'clock, she was exhausted, her head hurt and spun by turns—but she was absolutely letter-perfect on the proper forms and manners which, Vivienne assured her, were absolutely essential to not only surviving, but making a name for oneself as a newcomer to the Ball. Rogue was tired enough that she didn't even register Vivienne's comment of "I shall see you tomorrow morning," until after the woman was gone. Remy laughed, not unkindly, at her expression at her realization that tomorrow was another day of the same. "Look at it this way, _chere,_" he consoled her, as she trudged to her room. "Vivienne t'inks you're more than worthy of a _second_ day of her training. I've never heard of her coming back a second day."

Rogue's shoulders slumped. "You mean I'm _that bad?"_

"_Non._ You are that _good,_" Remy returned, smiling. "Vivienne has _no_ patience for those who cannot learn what she has to teach. If you were at all 'bad' at her lessons, she would have left in a dramatic huff earlier in the day, no doubt loudly declaring this all 'a waste of her time.' It is a high, high compliment that she is coming back tomorrow—and after the Ball is over, she will tell everyone she meets that you were worthy of two days' instruction."

"Hmm…" Rogue turned that over in her head, then shook it; it was too late for such social convolutions. "Aah, forget it—I'm going to get sleep. I've got the feeling that tomorrow, I'll need it."  
"You probably will." Remy agreed, laughing, and with that, they made their ways to their respective rooms.

The next day, Vivienne was pleased to find Rogue still primer-perfect on the lessons she'd been taught the day before. "_Cela est excellent, mon cher!"_ She exclaimed, upon testing Roisin's recall. "Now. I am afraid we will have to get personal today."

"What do you mean?"

Vivienne smiled widely. "Where is the dress the Guild sent to you? And the corset? That is what we practice today."

As it turned out, the dress was just as marvelous on her, after all, as it was on a hanger. Vivienne tied small silver bells into the gown's underskirt and into her hair, and disclosed to her that it was an old training trick, used in the royal French courts, to train young ladies to keep their paces even and smooth. The goal was, of course, to avoid chiming the bells at all, though with the swing of the heavy skirt, it couldn't be helped at times. Still, they helped remind Rogue to keep her stride in check and her gait even.

Rogue had her doubts about the overall look of the dress-with-corset—Vivienne had turned the mirror to the wall before helping her into the gown. Her doubts were washed away, though, by the curious combination of constriction and control the corset offered: Constriction, obviously, because it eliminated most of the movement of her waist, but control, because it enabled her to maintain a perfect posture effortlessly. Vivienne had her practice sitting, standing, turning, bending, dancing, and curtseying in the thing, with variations to be used depending on whom she was addressing. "…and your knee must actually _touch_ the floor, but not rest on it, when addressing _l'haut roi,_ our leader And you must _stay down_ until he bids you to rise, so practice balancing in the full curtsey for as long as possible. If you rise early, he will take it as an insult—and you do not wish to insult him. He is a good man, but he has his pride."

She even purposely tripped Rogue up, so she could practice getting up from the floor gracefully, if necessary— "And some people may try to trip you, dear, you look _divine_ in that gown"— and she had her practice avoiding the obvious ways of being tripped—"The easiest way to not have to _rise_ from being tripped is to avoid being tripped in the first place," she pointed out wryly. Rogue's years of combat training served her well in these exercises, and Vivienne voiced her pleasure at her student's quick mind and reactions.

Finally, they settled on the hairstyle and makeup and the selection of jewelry to be worn to the Ball the next evening. Before Rogue knew it, another night and half a day had passed, and Vivienne arrived a third time to help her get ready for the Ball, only hours away, now.

They had settled on the easiest way to get Rogue dressed the day before—and the dress _demanded_ an outside person's assistance; there was no way Rogue could reach some of the ties, let alone get the mask in place. In a short time, she was attired, and she sat patiently for several hours, while Vivienne finished up her makeup and hair, and tied the mask in place, a pleasant coolness against her skin. She led her to the full length mirror, which she had turned to the wall, so as not to distract Rogue during her lessons. Vivienne turned it around smoothly on its hinges, and the younger woman gasped at the vision in the mirror.

Her hair had been turned into a mass of ringlets in a complicated twist cascading down her surprisingly half-bare back. Tiny jewels wound throughout her hair, making it look like it was made of a combination of living amber, pearls, gems, and chestnut. She selected a fantastic necklace that extended part of the way _up_ her neck, and cascaded down to lie wide across her bared collarbones, a mass of diamond and ruby splendor that brought out matching gleams in the gown. Somewhere in the seemingly bottomless jewelry-box, Vivienne found matching onyx-and-silver-and-diamond black rose bracelets, five inch wide cuffs that contrasted marvelously with her winter-pale skin. The heels were Cinderella-esque, silver with glitter all over, which caught the light playfully as her skirt swung clear of the floor. Finally, that fabulous mask, that covered her entire face, was the crowning piece, making her eyes look exotically hazel from within the silvery-white surface. Vivienne had hidden the ties to the mask beneath her hair, so the mask truly seemed, somehow, to actually be her face, a fragile but breathtaking, glowing beauty. Her face beneath the painted, feather-edged mask had been carefully done up to mimic the mask's paint, so that even after the traditional un-masking at midnight, she'd maintain that unearthly beautiful look.

Rogue turned in the mirror, fighting back the delight of this generous dress-up, sure there had to be _something_ detracting about it. "Wow… about the only thing that looks the same is my flat-as-a-board figure," she joked faintly. Vivienne made a face at her in the mirror, and batted her lightly on the shoulder.

"Novelty, my dear, is greatly prized at the Ball," she informed her. "You will be looking elegant, and not just-this-side-of-sleazy, as ninety-five percent of the women your age—and older—will be looking. And you have the decided advantage that you won't look like a pig in a sausage casing in your dress—everyone else will be falling and squishing out any available space, I assure you. Not very many girls take to the _old_ forms of dress for the balls, only the scions of the oldest Guild families usually do. The younger girls, they prefer to wear their cheap off-the-rack prom dresses and such with their heirloom masks," she sighed regretfully. "But," and a crafty gleam entered her eyes, "I do believe you will cause a sensation tonight, and perhaps a return to the preferred, traditional ways, at least for the annual Ball."

Rogue wasn't sure what to say to that—she had figured out that compliments from Vivienne were very rare. So she merely smiled and thanked the woman effusively for all of her help. She was startled when Vivienne took her hands in her own, and said, "No thanks are necessary, dear; I, too, was a newcomer to the Ball, once, and so I am merely paying _my_ instructor back, after a very long time. Now," she added briskly, "If Remy is following orders, there should be a limousine downstairs waiting to take you to the Ball."

"Already?" Sudden nervousness seized her.

"It's six o'clock, and the Ball starts at seven," Vivienne smiled at her. "Yes, 'already.' You'll be fine; just stay wit' Remy."

Rogue smiled back, and tried to swallow away the sudden tightness in her throat as she descended the stairs. _Hooboy… there's no turning back now,_ she thought to herself. Fortunately at that moment Remy stepped into view, and the sight of him thoroughly distracted her from her nerves. He was dressed in a suit that mimicked the colors of her dress—a dark, nearly black green, with white as contrast, and silver and blood-red accents that cut the vision with their sudden vivid color as he moved. His hands were encased in black gloves, and in one hand he held both his mask—which looked to be fully as amazing as hers—and a fabulously decorated hat. She was delighted to see it had long pheasant feathers; somehow it added the final touch to his outfit, which bridged neatly the 19th and 21st centuries.

Remy, for his part, was thunderstruck at the sight of her, coming so slowly down the stairs. She positively had an eldritch glow about her, and he couldn't say whether it was the dress, the mask, or just _her_. In any case, he was having a hell of a time coming up with anything to say. _Dieu, Remy, aren't y' s'posed to be de ladies' man? _Say_ something! _"_M-mon Dieu, chere_, y' look—y'look—amazing!" He stammered inadequately, but she laughed, nerves edging her voice as she thanked him. She reached the bottom of the stair, and looked at him expectantly. And waited.

"…Oh!" he shook himself, and offered his arm smoothly. "Sorry. Shall we, _ma chere?" _

As they were getting into the waiting limousine, Rogue asked curiously, "Where is this Ball taking place, anyway?"

Remy tipped his head back, regarding the stars overhead. "Y' remember that nonsense line at the bottom of de first letter from _ma famille?_"

"Yes. Well, vaguely."

" '_Ancient Bread and Honey Affair near the stew plate's edge among the fiery points in Hell by the fourteenth after Birdsong Rings.' _" He recited from memory. _"_'Ancient' is 'longtime;' 'Bread and Honey' is rhyming slang for 'money,' 'near the stewpot's edge' means 'by the bayou,' 'among the fiery points' means there's a clear view of de stars, 'in Hell' means it's to de south, and 'fourteenth after Birdsong' means fourteen hours after dawn, so seven o'clock. Altogether, the place and time for de Ball is 'Longtime money affair by the bayou's edge wit' a clear view of de sky, to de south, at seven o'clock.' Dere are t'ree places de Guild traditionally holds its Ball, which is de only 'longtime money affair.' So of dese t'ree places, we eliminate the northernmost, b'cause dis is 'to de south,' and of the two sites left, we eliminate de one closer to de city b'cause you can't see de stars near so well." He leaned forward to address the waiting chauffeur. "Driver, take us to _Lac Étoilé."_

" 'Starry Lake,' " Roisin translated to herself, shaking her head at the convoluted way in which Remy's father had told him where this damned Ball was. _Lac Étoilé,_ apparently.

"De name of de private club de Ball is held at dis year," Remy explained. She nodded, nervousness beginning to overtake her again.

"Remy," she said suddenly, after about ten minutes of tense driving.

"_Oui?"_

"What happens if—if—I can't speak—or I say the wrong thing—or I trip—or something?" She was nearly rigid with nervousness.

"Den it happens," he shrugged, watching her carefully. "But it won't, because Vivienne got you ready for dis."

"But I only had two days!"

He shrugged again. "Dere are women going to be dere tonight, chere, who will be a huge wreck of nerves and sick and shaky wit' 'em, even though they've been attending the ball since they were ten years old. _Don't worry. _B'sides," he added offhandedly, "You're beautiful enough dat any _gaffes_ or _faux pas _you make will be instantly forgiven. Style," he said, "counts for a lot at de Ball."

She laughed, shakily, but a laugh nonetheless, and Remy was pleased to see some of the tension drain from her. He forced himself to not betray any of his own extreme nervousness, though his had a far different source. He extended his empathic sense toward her, and nudged her emotions away from 'frantic' and more toward 'calm and collected,' lest she really work herself up into a panic attack. She sighed, and relaxed more against the seat cushions. Confident that she wouldn't get herself worked up that much again, Remy also relaxed, and they passed the rest of the trip in inconsequential talk, staying far away from the topic of the Ball they would be shortly attending. In what seemed like mere moments—but was, in fact, forty-five minutes of circuitous travel that guaranteed anyone trying to follow the limo would fail miserably—they pulled smoothly to a stop outside a medium-sized, rather nondescript looking club at the edge of an inlet of the bayou.

Remy tied his mask on, which turned out to have a fine mesh cloth across the eyeholes, so his distinctive eyes didn't give him away during the masque. Once it was in place, they got out of the limo, Remy taking Rogue's arm again as they approached the most intimidating-looking bouncer she had ever seen. She had no doubt that the guy could pitch someone over the fence and into the water with _maybe_ two fingers, and not even think about breaking a sweat. Rogue tried to look around inconspicuously as they approached; was Remy _sure_ he had the right place?

"Papers?" The bouncer was right in front of them.

"No papers," Remy replied. "but, _mon javelot,_ we'd like to see de _dirigeant de voleur, si'l vous plaît?"_

"I suppose you might find him here; feel free to look around." He stepped out of the way, opening the door wide for them.

Remy could feel Rogue's questioning gaze on him. "Passcodes," he explained. "No one ever receives an actual, paper invitation to de Ball; anyone trying to present one, den, is trying to sneak in. Dis is definitely the right place."

"Oh," Rogue replied, but her attention was dragged elsewhere as they paced along the dark corridor. "Remy?"

"Yeah?"  
"Where in this building did they fit a ballroom…?" she started to ask, as they descended a short staircase and came to an enormous set of double doors. They were so perfectly balanced that they opened without effort as Remy reached out a hand and merely touched them. Light and sound seemed to explode around the pair, and hang on the very air as the doors swung open, and Rogue was momentarily blinded by the glittering throng that swirled and moved like a multicolored sea at the bottom of the next staircase.

Several inquisitive heads turned as they descended the richly-carpeted staircase, and murmurs of speculation ran thorough the crowd as people tried to guess their identities. Rogue felt her spine straighten and her head lift proudly as the multiple gazes fell upon her. Remy murmured, unseen behind his mask, "Don't take any notice of people trying to guess who you are, they do that to everyone who comes in; it's part of the masque tradition."

"All right," she said faintly, dazzled by the colors and lights in spite of herself. She shook her head slightly, silver and auburn curls bouncing, and took a firmer grip on Remy's arm, afraid to be separated from him in this seething mass of glitter and masks.

Many of the masked persons presented themselves to Remy with a sly air, as though they'd guess who he was merely by walking by. He gave artfully cryptic answers to their clever questions about who he was behind his mask, neatly avoiding falling into the traps they tried to lay to catch his identity, and merely let Roisin be an utter puzzle to them all, as they tried to determine where they knew her from—because of course she _must_ be someone known to the Guild, to be here, mustn't she?

They walked, and chatted casually, and received many compliments on their fantastically fae costumes; there were other matched pairs about, dressed as Cupid and Psyche, or the Sleeping Beauty and her Prince, even a dragon and a maiden. There were three Harlequins bounding about, in color-coded costumes, and a Comedy and Tragedy pair who quickly and cunningly switched masks throughout the evening, so Comedy would sometimes be in grinning gold from head to toe, and sometimes have a sad, sober, silver-hued mask, with Tragedy vice-versa.

Eventually they made their way to the buffet-style banquet table, where Rogue discovered that the Guild had anticipated the ballgoers' reluctance to remove their masks in order to eat: Small, flat forks were provided that enabled one to eat through the masks' mouth slits, and all drinks were served in curiously-shaped fluted glasses that appeared to have been pinched while the glass was still hot, providing a narrow spout with which the champagne or wine or what-have-you could be easily and neatly consumed through the mask.

At about ten o'clock, a live orchestra she couldn't see struck up a waltz, and suddenly, to her surprise, Remy was bowing low to her and requesting the first dance. Laughing, she agreed, glad she and Remy had practiced many different dances over the winter. Remy thanked the Lord that Rogue couldn't pick up on his emotional state, or she surely would have asked about his extreme nervousness; somewhere, somehow, he had decided, tonight he would lay out his often-repressed feelings for her, hoping, praying she felt the same. He couldn't confess it before, while they were forced to be _so _close, because what if she didn't return his regard? It would have made sheer survival utter torture, and escape from their hunters absolutely impossible. But now, when they wouldn't be forced together so much, where there was room to stay apart if his confession _did _make things awkward between them, now he could say his piece, and let her have the next move in this cagey game of hearts. He only hoped she wouldn't break his.

Rogue, for her part, remained blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil, but thrilled at the feel of his arms securely framing her for the dance. _Too bad we can't dance together all night…_ She thought longingly. Then she found herself swept into the current of the dance. All of those dancing seemed to have been breathed upon by the same spirit; she barely even had to think about where her steps should weave her in and out; the very pulse of the crowd moved everyone where they needed to go.

Cupid cut in at the beginning of the gavotte that followed, and Remy, shrugging, danced with Psyche. Somehow, he restrained himself from punching Cupid for cutting in; it _was _a ball, after all. He silently told his unreasoning jealousy to take a hike. The minuet that followed, Rogue was a bit taken aback when the man who bowed his way into being her partner raised his head to reveal a bulldog's face—obviously, the whole Guild enjoyed the annual festivity in various ways. She sat out for the contredanse, and watched the twin pairs of dancers weave in and out; and she allowed Remy to pull her back in for the cotillion, where she danced with a dozen different partners, including a satyr and what appeared to be Zeus.

The mood of the orchestra changed then, to a lively, passionate bolero, which Remy obligingly partnered her for, his eyes never leaving her; then one of the Harlequins asked to have the foxtrot, which he led her ably through. The orchestra took a break, then, and the dance floor as a mass flowed directly over to the punch bowls, only to flow right back twenty minutes later when the orchestra began re-tuning. After a dozen more dances, Rogue's head was spinning as she gripped Remy's hands for sheer balance, but she could feel the smile that stretched her face—this was so much _fun! _

Somewhere, a bell chimed three times, and the crowd began parting like the Red Sea, leaving a wide corridor open at the bottom of the staircase. As they moved through the crowd, Remy leaned closer to her and muttered, "There'll be three more bells, then seven. That's when _ma pere_ makes his appearance, and de formal part of de Ball begins, where everyone presents themselves to _le roi_ to renew their Guild oaths, and important announcements are made. It's also where petitions and grievances and the like can be heard. _Pere_ makes his judgments on the issues, but at de Ball, and only at de Ball, de Guild as a crowd votes to either uphold or overturn his decision."

"What happens if the Guild overturns a judgment?"

Three bells chimed.

"Dey go before the Guild Council, which includes _Pere. _But while he can be tough, and won't go easy on someone found guilty of wrongdoing within the Guild, _ma pere_ is _always_ fair, and just. Sometimes, de Guild Council as a whole isn't so fair-minded, and their sentences are definitely harsher. So you see, it's a gamble to present a petition at de Ball rather than to _Pere _alone during normal Court sessions; you _might_ get off scot-free of somet'ing you know _Pere _would find you guilty of, but you also _might_ end up with a harsher sentence. It's a good way, though, to bring up any grievance against _mon Pere,_ if anyone should have a problem wit' him."

"Has anyone ever done that? Brought up a grievance against your father, I mean."

"_Non_," Remy replied briefly. "Not to my knowledge, anyway. _Mon pere _is well-loved by de Guild. But the system is dere, just in case."

Then the bell chimed seven times, and the entire crowd went still, murmurs chasing around the suddenly hushed crowd, masked faces turned expectantly toward the double doors. They swung open as effortlessly as ever before, but this time, the pair of figures that emerged were brightly backlit. Beside her, Remy chuckled to himself, _sotto voce,_ "What did I say? 'Style counts for a lot at the Ball.' " The light faded to reveal the pair of men coming down the staircase; both were costumed as fancifully as the rest of the crowd: The one in the lead, undoubtedly Remy's father, Jean-Luc LeBeau, was dressed as a Robin Hood, with a Wil Scarlet following. As off-the-wall as the costumes were, strangely, Rogue didn't want to laugh or make any comment; the man in the costume somehow exuded a serious but basically good nature, and one got the feeling, looking at him, that his costume was carefully considered and chosen. He also radiated extreme confidence and self-assurance, so much so that even had he _not_ made a definite entrance, there was no doubt in Rogue's mind that everyone here would have acknowledged him as their leader, mask or no.

'Robin Hood' seated himself on a high backed chair, settling his hands on the armrests. "_Mes amis,_" he said, looking out across the crowd searchingly, "Let us begin." The crowd moved, and swirled, and murmured again, and began trickling, one by one, into the empty space in front of his chair, each person nodding a quick bow or bob and murmuring in French or English: "_J'engage me faire comme vous me dites_," "I pledge myself to do as you bid."

Remy skillfully kept the both of them back, until they were sure to be the last people to approach Jean-Luc. They paced gravely up the open space beneath 'Robin's even gaze; then, as though they'd practiced it, Remy bowed deeply as Rogue simultaneously dropped into an elegant curtsey, her hands gripping the gorgeous dress. A silence fell at the unexpectedly ceremonial obeisance.

The costumed man in the chair leaned forward and spoke to Remy, his voice curious. "So formal so soon, masked one? We have not yet begun the truly _formal_ part of the festivities."

"As formal as befits one who has not seen his _grand roi_ in more than a year," Remy said clearly, looking up at him from his bow, and added flippantly, "and b'sides, _ma Tante_ always taught me to be polite in company."

At that, the man threw his head back and laughed—a laugh that confused Rogue with its familiarity, until she realized it was Remy's same careless, joyous laugh, with this strange man's voice. Then his tremendously powerful personality was turned on her, as he said to Remy, "Speaking of politeness… I do not believe I know your exquisite companion…_mon fils_." A gasp and excited murmur thrummed through the crowd as they heard their leader address this mysterious man as 'my son.'

"This is… Rogue, Roisin," Remy introduced. "I've written you of her, sir."

Jean-Luc rose, and stepped toward Roisin, who was still in her curtsey. "Aaah… _la Roise Noire, un accueil chaleureux…_ a warm welcome to you." He said, as he bent and actually kissed her hand, raising her with it. She was a bit bemused. _I didn't think anyone actually did that anymore…_ He maintained his hold on her hand as he looked past her shoulder at the gathered, excited company. "_Mes amis,_ there were no petitions scheduled for this year's Ball; has anyone changed their mind?" After a moment's pause, when no replies were forthcoming, he nodded. "It is good, then. Midnight, and the unmasking, is only moments away! Be ready!" The crowd's excitement ratcheted up a notch, and full-voiced conversations once again broke out as everyone tried to get a good spot to see if it really _was_ Remy whom Jean-Luc had spoken to.

Jean-Luc turned back to Rogue, whose hand he still held. He tucked it through the crook of his arm and grabbed Remy by the elbow with his free hand. 'Wil Scarlet' bounded up and got Remy's other arm, so he was firmly pinioned between them.

"Hey, what's dis all 'bout?" he mock-complained, laughing.

"Well, _mon frere,_ we haven't seen you in more than a year, and have received only one phone call and three letters in that time," 'Wil' answered. "You're not leaving our sight for a damn long time!"

_"Exactament."_ Jean-Luc said, satisfaction in his voice. Rogue had no doubt he was smirking beneath his mask, and stifled a laugh. His mask turned to regard her. "And so, how is _la Rose Noire_ enjoying de _Grande Bal_ of de T'ieves Guild?"

"Oh, very much, sir," Rogue replied, trying not to stare as absolutely _everyone_ they passed bowed at least their heads as their group passed by; many actually bowed at the waist or dropped into curtseys as low as hers.

A girl costumed as a nymph sauntered up to their group and book ended 'Wil,' taking the arm that wasn't keeping a death-grip on the hapless Remy. "It's almost midnight!" she chirped, bumping the man beside her with her hip flirtatiously. "Are we all ready to drop our masks, show our real faces?"

As though her words had summoned it, a clock began chiming the twelfth hour. As though it were New Year's, the crowd counted down the seconds, hands poised to take off their masks. "Twelve!" Rogue started trying to work the knot that held her mask in place loose, only to find she couldn't figure out, by touch alone, _how_ Vivienne had worked the thing in place. "Ten!" A warm set of fingers settled over hers, and shooed them away. She brought her head up and around, startled at the sudden contact, and smiled reflexively when she realized it was Remy, who had wormed his way out of his family's friendly clutches to come help her. "Nine!" The ties came loose under his nimble fingers; behind his mask, Remy closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of her silken hair sliding over his fingers, afraid it might be the last time he could be this close to her. _I'll probably scare her off, telling her how I feel, but this can't go on like this. _I _can't go on like this,_ he thought. "Seven!"

"_Chere_?" he said, his throat suddenly dry. "_Chere_, I've got t' tell you somet'ing."

She picked up on his sudden tension; it fairly hummed through his arms, as his hands were still working the mask-ties out of her hair. His tone was completely serious, and her heart, so happy just seconds ago at the mere _closeness _of him, sank to about the vicinity of her knees. _Oh, Lord, he's gonna tell me he has to marry that girl after all, or that he really has a girlfriend here and that he was just being _nice_ all this time to make things as easy as possible between us, because he _is_ that nice, or that he won't have time to talk to me or anything once he starts his job, or whatever it is, again, or…_ Belatedly, she realized she hadn't replied, and he was regarding her intently.

"Y-yes? What is it?" She said, nervously.

"Five!" The crowd was chanting enthusiastically.

"W-well… This is hard to get out…" He frowned as one of the ties got caught somewhere in her mane. He was _not_ going to do this facing her mask! He tugged, gently and it started sliding out.

"Four!"

"What is it you need to tell me?" She was anxious, chilled with fear of separating from him; she was sure she was dead-pale beneath the mask _Why did he choose _now_ of all times to tell me we've got to go out own ways, anyway!_

Three seconds to midnight….

One silk tie slid free of her hair, twisting between them.

Two….

The other came free, and her mask loosened, only his grip keeping it on. She couldn't even form words, her throat completely closed off. _Why wasn't he speaking?_

One.

"This." He dropped his right hand, holding her mask, at the same time sweeping his own mask off with his left hand. Trailing silken ribbons, his right arm came firmly around her waist as his left hand tipped her startled, wide-eyed face up to meet his a bare half-second before his lips came down urgently, madly, on hers.

"Midnight!" the cheers went unnoticed by the pair as time not only stopped, it _imploded_.

_I was so wrong,_ Rogue thought dizzily, as her universe suddenly ceased tilting off-axis and snapped into how it so _very_ much ought to be. She kissed him back like a drowning thing, like he was air, like he was life._ I am so happy I was so wrong!_

Remy, expecting, at best, a step backward, a smile, and some it's-not-you-it's-me speech, nearly keeled over when she not only didn't wallop him, she _kissed him back!_ _Mon Dieu, thank you, thank you… I cannot imagine living, even barely functioning, without her now; thank you for putting us into each other's paths… _

His arms came more fully around her as she wrapped hers around his lean torso and leaned into that timeless kiss…

…and for the moment, that was all either needed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Okay! So we've got the Ball done with now—but there's still plenty more to do… like get the Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds at peace, and some heists, and oh yeah, have the X-men meet back up with our Rose Noire… please R & R!


	21. Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Shameless plug: Please go and read the new(ish) chapter in "Black is the Color," if you were following that fic… the new chapter is lonely and wants some reviews. pause …Okay, _I_ want some reviews. But seriously, I want to know how that fic is working—or isn't—for readers. Thanks! —Alara

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 21: "Where Alph, the sacred river, ran"

They broke apart five seconds after midnight, both flushed and blushing but smiling, unnoticed by most people around them, who were also disengaging (or maintaining, in a few cases) embraces—obviously, their kiss wasn't shocking, or attention-getting, except to the two of them. Rogue was grateful for it, now that the moment had passed; wonderful as that kiss had been, she didn't know if she could handle a bunch of strangers' eyes on her, judging her, measuring her… She glanced around furtively. Most people were now removing their masks, and shouts of surprise and glee sporadically ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling as friends were recognized after hours of anonymity. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them.

The crowd around them parted suddenly, as though swept aside by a strong wind, and suddenly a small, older, determined-looking woman was charging like a miniature locomotive straight toward Remy.

"Remy, m' chil', m' chil', just _let _me get a good lookin' at yo'!" She exclaimed, in an accent so thick you could grab hold of it. She held Remy at arms' length for a moment, shaking her head. The accent noticeably eased as she turned to Rogue and pulled her into a completely unexpected hug, murmuring, "Welcome to you, child. I'll be speakin' wit' you later. Don' worry." She winked, released her abruptly, and turned back to Remy, enveloping him in her strong arms as the surprised Rogue caught her balance.

Remy's expression was bemused as he accepted her hug. "_Tante!_ It's good to—what are you doing?" He cut himself off as she broke from the clasp and drew two small bags hanging from cords from out of her sleeve, and dropped the necklace-like object over his head, then turned and thrust the other over the startled Rogue's head, as well. Remy picked it up in one hand, examined it, and eyed his aunt narrowly. "Gris-gris? _Tante_, what's going on?"

She waved him off. "Don't you worry. Just keep 'em on. At least, until _She's_ seen you. She wants to see you, as soon as possible. See you _both._" She nodded significantly in Rogue's direction.

Remy shook his head, suddenly weary, and more to Rogue than to anyone else, said, "Fine. Let's talk about it all in the morning. It's late." He sighed to himself. He _was _home again, wasn't he?

His father caught his arm and held him back as _Tante _Mattie and Mercy efficiently swept Rogue up between them and hustled her off to a guest room. She cast him one helpless, wry look over her shoulder. He shrugged his eyebrows at her; she took this as mute suggestion she simply go along with it, shrugged herself, and proceeded to make polite, friendly small talk with the pair as they all disappeared into the night.

"Now dat I've got you alone…" his father began, a serious expression coming across his face. "Where've you been de past two years, _mon fils?"_

Remy avoided his direct gaze, and repeated, "In the morning. It can all wait 'til the morning." He walked off after Rogue, Mercy, and _Tante,_ hoping he remembered the way back to the Guild Seat after all this time.

Jean-Luc LeBeau stared after his son thoughtfully, and shook his head sorrowfully, wondering, _What happened to you out there, my carefree boy?_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next morning, Remy was halfway through his eggs—and, if the looks his _Tante_ was giving him were any indication, he'd finish them too—when Jean-Luc settled deliberately across the table from him.

For a moment, silence held in the sun-drenched kitchen, the light bouncing off of the scarred kitchen table they sat at, gleaming off the copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging over the counter.

It chased off the plate Remy was eating from, and he traced his hands over its chipped, once-broken, glued-back-together edge fondly. That plate had been one of the first things he'd accidentally charged. He still remembered the terror he'd felt when the shards went rebounding through the kitchen—funnily, his fear was not born of the strange power he'd just manifested, but horror at what his _Tante_ would do to him when she found out he'd _broken one of her plates._

Of course, ten seconds after the plate had exploded, before the thirteen-year-old could even think about cleaning it up (or think of a good excuse), _Tante_ came through the door. She stopped dead in her tracks, gravely surveyed the porcelain littering the room, and heaved a sigh. "Happened again, didn' it, chil'?" She helped him gather the pieces. Even after the mess had been cleaned up, though, he eyed the bag of broken pieces forlornly. She considered a moment, then (frighteningly) smiled. "How's about you g'wan an' get de glue, and' we'll fix this here plate, _mon rascal_?" Remy's face had lit up at the suggestion, and soon they were carefully piecing things back together. By the next morning, the glue had dried, and from then on, that was 'Remy's plate.'

He was touched she'd kept it even after he'd fled the Guild warfare, presumably never to return.

"So." His father's voice broke into his memories. "It's 'de morning,' pup. Time to talk. Where've you been?"

"Pennsylvania," he replied flippantly. "B'fo' dat, living in Ohio. Befo' _that_, New York. An' before that, just… jus' wandering." He shrugged, reluctant to speak further.

Jean-Luc sat back in his chair and eyed his son narrowly. He decided his best tactic would be to needle Remy until he got more than a relatively one-word answer to his question. "Well," he said, "I knew 'bout Ohio, an' I helped send you 'wandering.' So what happened in New York? You… meet up wit' some gangs, or something? Fall in wit' dis... _Rose Noir_ an' piss off her _pere_, o' what? Are we gon' have some angry father busting in here wit' a shotgun someday? O' course… y' letter _did _say y' were mixed up wit' de Feds. Her _pere_ an agent?"

"No!" Remy barked harshly, his voice rasping as his throat tightened at the thought of Trask's lab. "No! Roisin's got nothing to do wit' it! She was only there the same time I was—the—the same time…" He swallowed, unable to continue, his eyes burning with fear and fury.

Jean-Luc leaned forward intently, seizing his son's attention, startled at the terrified look on the younger man's face. "But Remy, _where?_ The same time as _what?_ That's what I want to know! Y' _vanished,_ _mon fils,_ just _disappeared,_ an' I need to know what happened t' you… whatever it is, it's changed you." He finished quietly. "I'd like t' know my son again. Please, Remy. Tell me. Tell _us_," he added, as _Tante_ Mattie quietly sat beside him.

Remy, for his part, physically _couldn't _speak, couldn't even look at them. Of course he didn't want to tell them—to not only admit that he, a prince of the Thieves' Guild, had been captured—and held—but that he'd been reduced to a lab rat… hard enough to even remember, let alone tell.

"_Please_, Remy." This time, it was _Tante_'s voice, soft and pleading. She shook her head, as if to herself, and said, "I don' know why, but it _is_ important we know what happened last year. It's one o' my feelings, Remy, or I'd not make you relive whatever it is. I can see it hurts."

_One of Tante's feelings… oh shit,_ Remy thought, as the bonds of duty and obligation clamped firmly around him. When _Tante_ had a feeling about something, well, one just didn't ignore it. It was part of the reason the Guild loved her—and feared her, a little—so much.

He glanced up: both of these, his father, his aunt-and-surrogate mother—these, he _should_ be able to tell about—

But his body betrayed him at the thought, throat closing over with tears, bands of terror-born pressure constricting his chest, causing him to huddle in on himself, unable to hear or speak or _breathe—_

"Remy." The voice was sweet, and low, and had that welcome Mississippi drawl. He felt the vise around his chest ease, and the weight of familial duty rose a little. He cracked open his streaming eyes: Rogue's concerned face flickered in his sight. She was kneeling in front of him, her small white hands curled around his clenched fists—which were glowing a fiery red. A frown crossed her face as she concentrated, and the fiery red seemed to flow over her hands and dissipate as she used Remy's borrowed powers to take the charge down. As soon as the glow disseminated, she tipped her head forward against his, her emerald eyes glittering. She turned a cold look on _Tante_ and Jean-Luc.

"What," she asked, in a dangerously pleasant tone of voice, "were you doing to him?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_In Philadelphia…_

Logan growled aloud to himself, ignoring the startled looks of passers-by as he stalked along the sunny, shop-strewn street in search of the place where Kitty had seen that maybe-familiar guy making out with a model.

And he was supposed to find this guy's scent from three friggin' days ago. In a _city._ A crowded, bustling, noisome city.

Did they think he was Superman? _Sheeze._

He _hated_ cities. No, scratch that—he liked cities just fine when he was looking for a whore or a fight or wanted to watch Scooter squirm and blush, but for tracking people, give him suburbia or wilderness anytime.

His narrowed eyes scanned the slushy streets looking for—what was it again? The Fuzzy Mitten Kitten Café, a cutesy kitschy half-open-air coffee shop. _Leave it to Half-Pint to track down a mysterious someone smooching nearby a place named _that he sighed to himself, when a flash of garish color caught his eye. Yep. There, in all its Technicolor glory, was the 'café.' And, yes, there behind where it jutted out into the broad sidewalk was a space of blank wall where the café hadn't managed to cram one of their hideous tables or chairs (they were all decorated with stylized images of kittens drinking bowls of what looked like mud but was presumably coffee). Well. He liked joe, and before he started literally sniffing around, he'd better try and reconnoiter a little. Maybe a worker saw something.

He entered the shop, and stopped dead at the sight of the proprietor.

A biker. A _bona fide_, leather-wearing, tattooed, pierced Hell's Angel.

Logan tactfully made no comment—not even a long look—as he ordered a venti, double espresso half-milk latte, which was the least girly and least complicated thing on the menu.

As he handed over the—well—_coffedrink,_ the biker stated, "Lost a bet."

"Mm." Logan counted out change, not looking up.

"Biiiig one."

"Mm." He found the nickel and penny.

"To my wife."

At this Logan glanced up in faint horror. "Oh." He considered. "That bites."

"Yeh." A pause. "So… you don't look like you belong in here any more than I do…"

Logan leapt at the opening. "About three days ago, there was a guy…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Jean-Luc eyed the young woman kneeling in front of his son with interest. Far from the painted, powdered, coiffed ingénue of the ball, she was clean-faced, but no less beautiful for that. Her curly two-toned hair was pulled back to the nape of her neck, where the waves cavorted and corkscrewed around her shoulders. She was dressed casually, in dark brown slim-fitting pants, and a soft, fleecy-looking shirt. The eyes, however—those striking green eyes he'd noticed at the ball were the same, and they were murderously furious now.

And they were directing that anger at him, for—what? He still didn't understand, and one thing Jean-Luc Antoine LeBeau hated was being confused.

What had she asked? Oh yes—what was he doing to upset Remy. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing her—Roisin, was it?—from beneath half-lidded eyes as he answered her question.

"Doing to him?" He drawled smoothly. "Wasn't doing anything to Remy, _p'tite._ Just be talking with him, _ce n'est pas?_" Her expression didn't change; she merely kept staring at him expectantly. He gave up a little more information, hoping her reaction would clue him in to where Remy had been the past year, for she undoubtedly was involved with _that_ somehow. "We were discussing what happened befo' Remy landed himself and you in Ohio. Care to add anything to the conversation?" He finished pleasantly, watching the girl for her reaction to his deliberately provoking words. He got a reaction to his questions, all right—but not from Roisin, whose angry flush had drained to pale blue-whiteness in about two seconds.

No, it was Remy who unexpectedly reacted, shooting to his feet in a sudden violent burst, his chair skidding behind him as he aggressively leaned across the table at his father and _Tante_. His yes ignited with hellish fire as he snarled, _"Y' don' ask her 'bout dat. Y' don' ask her 'bout dat—y' don' make her go back there."_

While he was threatening them (which Jean-Luc found to be a novel and interesting experience), Roisin rose gracefully to her feet and placed an ungentle, restraining hand on his arm, her nails digging slightly into the skin to draw his attention to her.

Sympathy entered her face as he turned to her. "Remy…" she said softly. "Rem, is that what upset you?" She paused, but received no answer. She continued, "They're your family. They of all people have the right to know—"

"The hell they do!" He shouted at her, angrily shaking her hand off his arm. "You an' me, _chere_, only you and me have de right to know about—about that. _No one _else." He turned, kicked the chair out of his way, and stormed out, leaving the other three standing staring awkwardly at each other.

_Tante_ Mattie spoke for the first time since Rogue had entered, pleading," Chile', can't you tell us—"

"No," Rogue cut her off. "It's something _he_ really has to tell you—" She looked anxiously in the direction Remy'd gone. "I'm sorry, I've really got to—where would he have gone? I've got to go to him—"

"T'rough de door, down de hall to de righ', out de door an' down de pat' to de bayou." _Tante_ advised her. The last Rogue heard was, "Bring dat boy an' y'self in fo' breakfast, y' hear?"

Then the outside door closed behind her, and she was suddenly surrounded by the sights, sounds and the warm wet marshy smell of the Louisiana bayou. She shivered a bit in the cold early morning February air, and set off resolutely down the clear path that trailed from the back door. Even from here she could sense Remy's inner turmoil.

She spared a moment to be privately glad her absorption of his empathic sense had only sensitized her to _his_ emotions. She didn't know how he withstood this much emotional information from everyone, all the time. Perhaps, unlike her own sensitivity to him, his power wasn't 'on' all the time, or perhaps he'd learned how to control it over the years.

She shook herself from her reverie and looked around as she came to a fork. Now, which path was it _Tante_'d told her to take? Well, she _hadn't_ said, had she. She'd said, _the_ path. Which meant that two of the three paths that lay in front of her were red herrings.

She studied each in turn, cursing Remy beneath her breath—he'd left no marks of passage. Well, the path that led in entirely the wrong direction was out, unless it was a _really_ long way around and somehow involved flight. That left the middle and leftmost paths. It looked like-yes-she took a step around the middle path's first bend. Yes—that wasn't the right one, either; it twisted and doubled back on itself, but ultimately would take one nowhere at all.

"Door number one it is, then." Rogue said aloud, as she plunged through the brush hedging the sides of the leftmost path.

The bayou quickly enveloped her, its air thick and cloying with the faintest hint of vegetative rot and slightly-stagnant water. She grimaced, realizing she was barefoot as her toes encountered a mossy, marshy patch of ground.

"Remy, you'd better not have gone too far," she sighed, and continued her search.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy, for his part had quickly cooled off, once he was over his initial burst of anger. He'd cooled off further, of course, once he'd climbed into the spreading branches of what he and Henri had long ago dubbed their "sittin' tree. Some of the branches stretched out over a pool of deep clear inviting water. This cold February morning, Remy lay on one of those branches and stared into the slowly-moving water, vapor rising from the surface.

His thoughts were just as confused as the swirling layers of mist. _Why_ had he overreacted to Rogue's entirely correct (he admitted) suggestion that if anyone had the right to know about Trask, his family did. It wasn't however, so much that he feared the telling—though he did, to some degree. He knew, whatever else, his family wouldn't think any less of him for being captured. He also knew, terrible as it was, that they had to know—had the _right_ to know what had happened to him. To them.

He stopped. There was the heart of it—_they_ were captured, _they_ were tortured, _they_ were made into experiments. Not himself alone. And to tell his part of it would mean Rogue telling hers, as well. It would mean asking her to expose that darkest part of her life to people who were strangers—and never mind they were Remy's family, they were still strangers to _her_.

But—still. Why did he have a problem with that, when she so obviously did not?

Maybe he wanted to kept that part of her life known to him alone, to keep that subconscious trust of him alive, a trust born out of the fact that he alone on the earth knew what she'd gone through. He needed something to maintain that trust, especially with what she would undoubtedly learn about him in the coming weeks…

Or maybe he was afraid she'd hate him, however unreasonably, for 'making' her tell her story to strangers…

Or maybe he was afraid she'd have no problem telling her story at all, and she'd realize she didn't need him after all…

What it all boiled down to was:

He _could not _lose her.

He recalled his earlier behavior and flushed. Well, shouting at her certainly was a good way to chase her off! He really needed to go find her, and apologize.

_She's probably still in the house,_ he thought, swinging off the tree branch, only to come nose-to-nose with a very startled Rogue, who took a swing at him before she recognized him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Her tromp through the marsh had only increased her ire. _First_ he unfairly shouted at her, _then_ he ran out and left her in a room staring uneasily back at people she didn't know, _then_ he made her trudge through mud and weeds and insects to try and find him. She was busy watching her footing, and not actually looking about her for Remy at the moment. So when a man's figure suddenly dropped down in front of her from nowhere, near the bayou's edge, she swung at him, an instantaneous reaction honed from years' physical combat training. She belatedly realized it was Remy, and pulled the punch… a little. She was, after all, still pissed.

Remy saw the blur of movement far too late to do anything about it without hurting Rogue. All he had time to do was relax into the punch, hoping like hell she'd pulled it and wouldn't break his jaw. WHAM!

A few seconds later, he was sprawled in the ground, one hand in a sloppy puddle of mud, looking bewildered up at Rogue, whose expression flickered between anger and concern. It settled somewhere in between the two as she leaned forward and gingerly ran her fingers along his swelling jaw. Her eyes asked, "Are you all right?" Her mouth asked, "So what the hell was that about?"

"Dunno, _chere_," he mumbled, running his tongue along his teeth to make sure they were all still there, "_you_ punched _me_—oh. You mean, why'd I go crazy."

"Yeah. That."  
"I realized, _chere_—that—" his courage failed him, and he fell to telling her most of the truth. "Well, that—that—_experience"_ he said bitterly, "is something that only you and I share. It seems like if I tell about it, if more people know about it, it isn't such a big thing anymore, it's diminished—and it _is_ a big thing," he said, and frowned. "I'm explaining this badly. It's like—if I tell _de famille _my story, yours has to be told too. And right now, I'm the only one here who knows you that well, to know the worst times you've gone through… and if your story gets told, I feel like I lose that part of you that only I know right now. Do you understand where I'm coming from?"

She looked at him seriously a moment, then extended a hand to help him up. "I think so," she said, "though I can't say I agree, exactly."

"I yelled at you because I didn't want to lose y—that part of you," he said, as they started back up the path. He felt the glance she threw his way. "Yeah, didn't say I was smart…"

As they walked, he explained his logic—such as it was—to her.

By the time they made it back to the house, he'd finished explaining to her, and she was nodding slowly.

"Okay," she said. "We've been through a lot, I'll give you that." Her voice sharpened a bit with anger. "But knowing about a horrible experience in my life does _not_ give you any particular claim on me, Remy." Her expression softened a bit as she added, "Knowing about it, that's one thing. Understanding it, however, is something no one else can claim. I think you need to remember that. I can share that experience with whomever I choose, whether you like it or not, and some weird sense of 'ownership' of that information does not change that." She shook her head. "But what I can't share with many people—maybe I can't share it with anyone—is the bone-deep _understanding _of that knowledge, that experience. That, like it or not, is yours and mine alone, at least for now. Now, I think your family has been waiting for two years to hear about where you've been, good and bad, and I think they deserve the information. They don't need to truly understand it, but they _do _need the knowledge. If you want, I'll stay, and help you get through the story—"

"_Want _you to stay?" he repeated incredulously. "It's your story as much as mine, _chere_. You _have_ to stay. Yes," he said resolutely, heading into the house, "it's time we told my family our story. But—together, right?"

She smiled. "Yes, together, Remy. C'mon, let's go in. Your _Tante_ has breakfast waiting, and my feet are cold and muddy. Let's go in where it's warm."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Soo… a new year, a new chapter… let me know what you think. Alara UNDERSCORE Celt AT hotmail DOT com. Or, better yet, clickety-click on that little purply box. Yeah, the one that also lets you get updates on when I update this. :) I'm just all about the shameless plugs today, aren't I?


	22. “Where was heard the mingled measure”

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 22: "Where was heard the mingled measure"

The pair re-entered the sun-drenched kitchen, interrupting Jean-Luc and Mattie, who'd been discussing contingency plans should Roisin have been unsuccessful at convincing Remy to come back inside. _In fact,_ Jean-Luc mused, _I'm surprised the _fille_ found him at all; he's a shadow when he wants to be. Or he used to be… There must be more to her than meets the eye._

Roisin sat down as casually as though she'd just stepped away for a moment; Remy settled beside her, a faintly sheepish look on his face.

Jean-Luc leaned forward. "Remy, will you tell us _now­—"_

A sudden _crack!_ against the table in front of him startled him, and before an eyeblink had passed the dagger he habitually carried up his sleeve was in his fist and poised above Roisin's hand, which she'd slapped against the worn wooden surface. Her only reaction to the flashing metal was a slight blink, and she coolly drawled, "Let the boy get some breakfast in him, first, before you make him talk. You don't know—" she swallowed once, her vivid eyes not leaving his, "You don't know how… difficult… this is going to be. For both of us. Give us some breathing room. And there are other family members who need to hear this too, right? Get them together. Best to tell it only once."

He nodded curtly, and stowed the knife, only then noticing that his son had had a card lit, ready to throw… at _him._ For threatening the girl? _Dieu, the boy's on a hair trigger,_ he realized. He exchanged uneasy glances with Mattie, who had also noticed Remy's sudden edginess. The tension only left the younger man's body when Roisin's hand touched his—as she neatly plucked the fork out of his other hand, and proceeded to steal bites of his breakfast. Jean-Luc realized she was deliberately trying to break the tension, and nodded in silent approval.

Remy gave her a raised eyebrow look; she shrugged. "You're just playing with your food, Cajun. I, at least, will _eat _it."

He rolled his eyes and smirked, "Fine, I'll go get a fresher, hotter plate for m'se'f, den. Yo' loss."

"Remy, you will not! Now sit yo'self down, an' I'll get you both new plates. _Children_," _Tante _Mattie sighed as she removed the beleaguered plate, adding as she did so, "Where's de charm I gave t' y', Remy? You know better than to leave something like that off; y'r guest can be excused for not knowing, but you can't."

Remy groaned, "Aw, Tante, de _gris-gris_? Do we really—"

"Yes, you really have to. Go get 'em. _Now_."

Remy sighed and stood, explaining to Rogue, "De charms _Tante_ gave us last night? Dey're gonna have to be permanent accessories, 'til we meet wit' de Source." He shook her head at her questioning expression. "I'll explain later, but… we're gonna have enough complicated stories being told today, _non_? Leave this one be, for now."

She nodded her agreement reluctantly, and fixed him with a stare. "You _will_ tell me, though." It wasn't a request.

"Yes. I will," he promised her, feeling his father's shock from across the room. _Now it'll come,_ he predicted silently. '_Do you t'ink you should be telling a stranger our Guild secrets?'_

His father cleared his throat. "Remy… De secrets of de Guild… they're _secrets_ fo' a reason."

Remy paused in the doorway, and looked over his shoulder at his father. "_Pere,_ I'm not gon' keep any secrets from her dat might get her—or de both of us—killed, or worse." His eyes met Rogue's. "We've been through too much for that."

A corner of her mouth twitched wryly, and she snorted. "That's an understatement, sugar."

Remy's eyes tracked back to Jean-Luc. "You'll understand, once you've heard the story," he assured him, and disappeared up the stairs. Mattie walked toward Roisin, a steaming plate in her hands, and Jean-Luc leaned back in his chair to observe this apparent Guild adoptee—or however she was going to fit in here.

"Here's yo' plate, child, now eat up befo' it gets cold." _Tante_ Mattie set the heaping plate in front of Rogue. "An' don't you let Remy steal any of it when he gets back—you need some meat on yo' bones."

"Been under a lot of… stress lately," she replied, a ghost of gallows humor entering her voice. "Thank you, ma'am." _Stress,_ she mentally rolled her eyes at her own choice of words. _Being kidnapped, abandoned, running across the country, train-jumping, being shot at, assaulted, blackmailed… yeah. Stress._

"An' don't you 'ma'am' _me_," _Tante_ added, as she cracked eggs into a pan at the stove. "You call me _Tante,_ girl, same's anyone else."

"Yes, _Tante,"_ Roisin replied instantly, mock-obedient, smiling at the woman's kindly order.

"Oh, so you've got your first commands from _Tante,_ eh?" Remy said, as he dropped into the seat next to Roisin, and handed her the charm from the Ball, slipping his own over his head. "I'll tell you now, it doesn't do any good to ignore 'em—she'll find _some_ way of getting you to do what she wants eventually. Don't say y' weren't warned." He ducked the towel _Tante_ flicked at him as she came back to the table with his plate.

"You'd best be careful, boy, wit'out me, you'd starve." She informed him. "Now, behave, if you want dis plate."

He pasted an angelic expression on his face, and looked beseechingly up at her. The pose lasted for about two seconds, when Roisin chuckled in his ear, "The demonic eyes really ruin the effect, sugar."

The adults winced at her comment—they knew how much Remy hated having attention drawn to the most obvious sign of his mutation. They were astonished, then, when he merely shrugged and grinned at her, and replied, "Yeah, I know. Had t' try, though, _non?_"

Still staring, they almost missed her next casual comment. "Anyway, _Tante,_ the boy can cook pretty damn well when he puts his mind to it. Did you teach him?"

"What? Oh." Startled, _Tante_ set the plate down. "Yes, yes I did. Never thought you were actually payin' attention, Remy."

"Always paid attention, _Tante._ Too scared to do otherwise, _hein?"_ He dug into his own plate, and sighed in contentment as the warm familiar tastes of home danced across his tongue. "Anyway, 't paid off." He smiled at Rogue. "_Femme_ came wit' me here, _non?"_

Rogue gave him an expressive look, and swallowed her eggs. "Like I _really _had anyplace better to go."

A smug look crossed Remy's face. "You'd've ended up wit' me one way or another, _chere._ Admit it. Remy's just too irresistible."

She curled a fist mock-threateningly at him. "Ya want another punch, Cajun?"

"_Another _punch?" "Is _that_ what happened to your jaw?" _Tante_ and Jean-Luc spoke at once. The Guild leader looked the young woman over more carefully, noticing the smooth power with which she moved. _She's had some training, at least,_ he thought to himself. _Maybe Remy's not crazy for bringing her here. We'll see._

Rogue shrugged off their exclamations. "He deserved it." The statement was matter-of-fact, not defiant or defensive. She playfully bumped Remy with her shoulder. "Admit it."

He rolled his eyes at her then, waving a hand dismissively. "Sure, sure. Always Remy's fault."

"Glad ya finally learned that." She returned swiftly. "Took you long enough."

"Brat."

"Egomaniac."

A new voice broke into the patter. "So, this is the mysterious _Rose Noire,_ eh?" Henri strode into the kitchen, Mercy not far behind him. He smirked at Remy. "Y' do know how to pick 'em, _mon frere."_

"Hey!" Mercy smacked him the same time as _Tante._ "Be nice!"

"What? It was a compliment!" He protested, retreating to Rogue and Remy's side of the table. Like his brother and father, he moved with a liquid speed that still startled Rogue, to see it in someone other than Remy. It seemed so odd to be around people who made his skills seem… almost commonplace. _Says the girl who lived with a mansion full of mutants,_ she scoffed at herself. She brought her attention back to the conversation.

"…_Pere _says you've got a story for us, Remy?" Henri was asking the young man sitting beside her. She felt him tense, and leaned slightly toward him, so her shoulder brushed his. He relaxed a minute amount, flicking the hint of a smile at her with his eyes.

"Yes." He stood, placing his napkin neatly beside his empty plate. His fingers brushed her shoulder. "We do."

"Well, let's go, then. The Guild Council has gathered in the meeting room." Henri informed them. "Whenever you're ready."

The pair trailed behind the others as they followed Henri, Mercy, _Tante_ and Jean-Luc through the long corridors.

"_Are_ you ready, Rem?" she asked him softly, keeping her eyes on those preceding them. "Don't let me pressure you—"

"Can _you _tell the story?" He broke in. "Even if I wasn't saying anyt'ing, could you?"

She paused, considered. "Yes," she replied slowly. "I think I could, if you were there, even if you didn't say anything. I think I could." She sounded a bit surprised at her own admission. She glanced at him, ready to ask him if that was what he wanted her to do, but found herself silenced by the quiet smile on his face.

"If you _could_, den I can't keep silent." He said. "I t'ink—you've become my strength, _cherie._ If you _can_ do something," he shrugged, shook his head, "den there's no way I _can't_ do the same. You're not forcing me into anyt'ing. So," he said, much more brightly, "Let's go entertain de T'ieves' Guild wit' a tale, eh, _cherie?"_

She gave him a half-grin. "Sure, Cajun. Let's."

They entered the large meeting room, facing the six members of the Guild Council, Jean-Luc, _Tante, _Henri, Mercy, and, to their surprise, Henry Walter, who leapt up and ran at them the second his eyes fell on them. He gave them a simultaneous one-armed hug, and said excitedly, "Hi! I'm _so_ glad you made it down here. The Council says we can't really talk right now, but I'm s'posed to tell my part of the story when you get to it. …Can I sit with you?"

A chuckle ran around the table, and a middle-aged woman—one of the Councilors, Roisin assumed—said dryly, "Ask _le roi,_ child. He's in charge here today."

Henry immediately spun to face Jean-Luc, sitting in the center of the table. "Sir? May I?"

"_Oui_," he smiled, though his eyes were serious. "We're going to try to keep this as informal and as least stressful as possible, Remy, Roisin," he said, as Henry dragged a third chair over to face the long table. "But de Source—and _Tante—_insist your story be officially entered in de Guild's history." He shook his head uncomprehendingly. "Mebbe it'll make sense once we've heard the tale," he sighed, and settled back. "All of you, have a seat, and start whenever you're ready, Remy."

Remy and Roisin sat, exchanged a look, and Roisin took a breath, sitting up straighter. "Well, sir, it really should be me who starts the story—Remy came into it a bit later. My name," she paused for a long moment, and breathed deeply as she made a decision, and spoke, dry-eyed. "My name is Roisin Dubh, the Black Rose, but before… Before this story begins, when I lived in New York, I was called Rogue. I lived in Xavier's School for the Gifted, which you may have heard of, in Bayville…"

The narrative lasted for several hours, winding from Roisin to Remy and back again, flaring out to include Henry, and even at times Jean-Luc, Henri, Mercy, and _Tante,_ as they shared their impressions of the notes and the information Remy was able to get to them.

The Councilors asked pointed questions, opening new theories as to the purpose of the experiments. They also examined the most likely ways Trask was no doubt using, even now, to track them down—after all, there was no reason he should have stopped after the failed shooting attempt in Ohio.

They were patient with the pair, who at times had to sit in silence for minutes altogether before being able to continue with their story. At other times, one or the other wept, or raged, or slumped hopelessly in their chairs as they related, in exhaustive detail, that most-of-a-year spent in pain, fear, and hiding.

It seemed like days later that they were done, and the same woman who had spoken to Henry earlier leaned forward, her expression concerned. "Roisin. Would you like us to get in touch with your former school, or family, for you? Now that you're in a relatively safe place, I mean."

Remy went still, watching Roisin out of the corner of his eye. She raised her head. "No," she said. "Anyone who wants or needs to know where I am, already does. The rest of them—" she shook her head sadly. "—They don't matter anymore."

The councilwoman nodded. "I see. Well." She turned her attention to Jean-Luc. "Well, sir, I suggest we adjourn the meeting until she's met the Source, and we see what _She_ has to add. In the meantime, we can evaluate if and how she'll fit in to the Guild, though personally I feel she'll do just fine."

"I agree," Jean-Luc said gravely, though whether with her suggestion or her assessment of Roisin, he didn't say—perhaps it was both. "Votes?"

"Agreed." Was the vote around the table, and with no more formality than some of the Council members leaving the room on other errands, the meeting was adjourned.

Remy's somewhat shocked family approached them, eyeing Roisin just the slightest bit warily—a long-lived habitual reaction to a stranger. Who was this girl, whom renegade ex-government agents were interested in, and what trouble did she bring with her? Remy noticed, and placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his gaze faintly challenging. Mercy, bless her, ignored all of this—she was typically a very open person—and pulled a surprised Roisin straight into a hug, which recalled the others to their manners. They all visibly relaxed. "Ohmygod!" Mercy exclaimed. "I had _no idea_ you had to go through all that crap. That _sucks_." She looked over at Remy. "For you both."

"Yeah." Roisin laughed a bit at the understatement. "It really did." She squeaked as Remy, an innocent look plastered across his face, poked her. She smacked his hand. "That innocent look is as good as it was this morning, Cajun," she told him. "That is to say, it sucks too."

"Hey!"

"Glad to know Remy hasn't changed _too_ much," Mercy commented, and Roisin's eyes lit up.

"Exactly _how well_ do you know him?" She asked, a crafty look on her face.

"Oh no." Remy said, putting his face in his hands.

"Yep, _mon frere,_ you're screwed," Henri commented cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Aren't you going to help me? Get Mercy away from her!"

"After _you_ told Mercy alllll about _me_ when we were younger? Not a chance," Henri laughed. "Payback time, Remy."

Remy glanced over: The two young women were still chatting animatedly. He groaned and sank into an armchair. "I _am_ screwed."

His father's voice issued quietly from the matching armchair, so that only Remy heard him. "Love's a bitch, eh, _mon fils?" _

Remy started to protest the statement, thought better of it, and merely nodded.

"I t'ink I like her." His father said consideringly. "Not entirely certain yet, but so far… I like what I see. More or less. Her tendency to get into insane situations notwithstanding."

"More or less?"

"I'll let you know when I decide."

"…And if it's less?"

His father repeated steadily, "I'll let you know when I decide."

And with that, Remy had to be content.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Over the next several weeks, Roisin found herself gradually acclimating to the peculiar environment of the Thieves' Guild. As she was clearly a guest of the LeBeaus, yet was equally clearly being brought _into_ the Guild (pending the Source's final approval), the rank-and-file Thieves seemed ambivalent about whether to treat her as one of them, or as a temporary visitor. The fact that it had been the long-missing Remy who had brought her into the fold, though, went a long way in her favor, and most people she met with treated her with a polite friendliness. A _very_ polite friendliness, which puzzled her to no end; at times, it seemed as though the Thieves were afraid of making her angry. _But they don't know about my powers,_ she thought somewhat anxiously. _Is it something about _me_ that makes people afraid? _

She saw Remy only intermittently during this time, as he was suddenly swept up into an array of meetings and training sessions, and catching up on all that had been going on since he left two years earlier. She didn't mind, though; it was giving her a chance to see what the Guild was like from her _own_ eyes… even if it was confusing her all to hell.

Frustrated, she asked Mercy for advice. The two young women had become good friends over the past several weeks, much to her surprise. _Then again, Kitty and I were good friends too, and who saw _that_ one coming?_ Mercy had introduced her to the women of the Guild, and all of the secret things the women did to keep the Guild running smoothly. "Sometimes, child," one of the older women had told her, chuckling, "Sometimes a problem requires a woman's touch, not a king's. Or a prince's. _Do_ keep that in mind."

She had merely nodded, bemused, and even more confused by the woman's phrasing. "What, exactly, am I missing here?" She asked Mercy, in frustration. "It's like everyone is speaking in a half-code or something. _Please_ tell me what it is I'm missing."

Mercy looked at her seriously, a bit confused. "You mean, no one has told you—? Oh, my friend," she said sighing a bit, "You need to go speak with _le roi_—Jean-Luc. Ask him. He will tell you what you need to know."

For the next several days, she determinedly stalked the halls near Jean-Luc's offices until—finally!—the man came to his office; apparently he didn't keep regular visiting hours. He stepped into the hallway, paused, and asked, "Roisin? Dat you?" From the shadowed corner where she'd been waiting, she walked deliberately in front of him, blocking his movement.

"Please, tell me who—what—you are." She demanded, frustration evident. "I'm missing a big clue here."

He smiled at her phrasing, and ran his hand self-consciously through his hair, eerily reminiscent of Remy. He waved her in the direction of his office. "Come in, and sit down. Let's talk."

She did so, and waited patiently while he settled himself on the other side of the desk. "What is your impression of de Guild so far? Are you finding your way all right?"

She blinked, surprised at the cordial question. "Well… yes, for the most part. Mercy's been very nice to me, and most people seem to want to get to know me. But…"

"But?"

"Everyone's so damn _polite!" _She burst out. "It's like everyone's wary of me, for some reason. They don't know me, not yet; _why_ are they treating me like I'm going to come down on them like a ton of bricks?"

"Remy," he stated, as though that explained everything. The "of course" was implied in his tone.

"What, has he told them something to make them all afraid of me? Why would he do that? He's wonderful, don't get me wrong, but I'm sick of being alone!" Her annoyance was obvious. "Well, not alone, but I think you know what I mean."

Jean-Luc leaned forward, perplexed. "You're right. You _are_ missing a big clue. What, exactly, has Remy told you about us?"

She told him, and finished, "But you all have everything so friggin' mysterious, and in double meanings and all, I really don't know _what _he's told me sometimes!"

To her surprise, he tipped back his head and laughed. "Oh… my dear…" Laughed again. "I'm sorry. You are giving us far too much credit for 'mysteriousness.' Take what Remy told you at face value, then match _that_ with how everyone's treating you."

She considered that for a moment. Her eyes widened. "You mean, you're _literally_ King of the Thieves' Guild? It's not just a title or nickname, or whatever?"

"O' course, _belle._ No more, no less." He shrugged.

"So that means Remy is…"

"Oui. He is one of my heirs, truly a Prince o' de T'ieves' Guild." He paused. "Does dat bother you?"

"No. Why should it?"

"Well, to be frank, most people don't choose to live wit' people who aren't... hmm... law-abiding citizens, shall we say. Staining of one's reputation, and all that."

She snorted at that idea. "Those would be the same sorts of people who think people like Remy and I aren't people at all, being mutants. Besides, I'm a worse thief than Remy could ever be."

"How so?" He leaned forward, interested. "We know, of course, that you are also a mutant, but Remy refused to discuss your powers, doubtless concerned I'd turn them to my own nefarious purposes. Which _is_ what I'd like to do, but only if you are _willing_ to lend a hand to us now and again. If you choose not to use your powers, whatever they are, on our behalf," he shrugged. "It doesn't matter. You can 'earn' your keep in other ways, that don't involve thievery. If you'd like. But you say you _are_ a thief; I ask again: how so?"

She studied the desktop, her eyes tracing the rich wood grain slowly. "He might steal jewelry, money, but I—" She lifted a pale hand. "I steal lives, memories." After a moment, when he made no comment, she continued, "I can absorb people's energy through my skin. It used to happen any time I even brushed against someone's bare skin... I'm getting control, though, with Remy's help." She looked at him then, mutely pleading, and to her surprise found not only the expected calculation in his eyes, but compassion as well.

"Don't worry, _chere,_" he assured her softly. "You _do_ have a home here as long as you need one, no strings attached." He smiled. "For Remy's sake, at de very least."

_A home._ Her throat suddenly closed over. Here was this stranger opening his home to her, a mutant, based only on Remy's say-so. As though he read her mind, Jean-Luc smiled again.

"But it's not just for Remy's sake I offer you dis place… De place could use more _belle femmes_ around. 'Specially one can keep dat Remy in line. You're a welcome addition. Just don't be surprised if I ask you to… help out from time to time, _oui?_ You can say no. And I'd only ask you to do t'ings yo' willing to do, and mos' likely only little stuff, depending on what skills you bring us." He assured her. "An unwillin' T'ief is no good at all."

"Sure… I suppose it's the least I could do," she accepted gratefully. "And for once I'd have control over what and who I steal from," she added half to herself. "But back to my original question—Is there any way to get people to relax around me, though?"

"Make 'em _realize_ you're one o' us, now," he advised. "T'ink on it. You'll find a way."

She nodded and rose, turning toward the door. His voice stopped her as she reached for the doorknob. "Roisin."

She turned. "Yes?"

"I nearly forgot." He walked around the desk, and handed her a plain black credit card with the Thieves' Guild logo emblazoned on it. "Take yo'self and Mercy out into de city. Get some clothes, books, de frilly bath things you _femmes_ seem to like—" At the look he got at that comment, he amended, "Well, mebbe not. But get yo'self whatever you need to feel more at home here. None o' our T'ieves are cookie-cutouts of anyone else; you shouldn't be either, Rose Noire. It's why we're de best at what we do." She turned to go once more, when he added, "An' ask _Tante_ about lessons fo' you. You did well at de Ball, but dere's still an awful lot fo' you to know to be a Thief. You'll learn."

She smiled back at him. "I'm sure I will." She waved the credit card. "Thanks; what's my limit?"

"Dere isn't one. Jus' don't go _too_ overboard, _hein?_ We may be T'ieves, but we do buy lots of things honestly. It's what keeps de city-dwellers who know about us, peaceable wit' us being here. Consider dat yo' first lesson in T'ieving—don't steal what you can very well buy, 'specially from dose making an honest living. You never know when you'll need an ally, an' no sense betrayin' folks, making unnecessary enemies."

Her mind flickered over her abandonments by her Caldecott friends, Mystique, and the X-men. "Oh, don't worry." She assured him. "I learned about betrayal long ago. I don't want _anyone_ feeling for me what I feel for some… particular people from my past."

"But dey _are_ in de past," he said cautiously.

"Very much so." She said firmly. "And as far as I'm concerned, they can stay there forever. For all that you're Thieves, I've found much more trust here than anywhere in my life."

"Good. Now, go spend some o' my money." He shooed her out, adding, "An' don't let Mercy bully you into anything you don't want to buy."

"Mercy? A bully?"

A grin. "You've never seen her shop."

She laughed, and with a toss of her auburn and silver head, disappeared out the door.

A few minutes later, Jean-Luc heard a discreet tap at the hidden door to the office. "Come in, Remy," he called aloud, and Remy emerged from a painting that swung out from the wall.

He shook his head. "How d'you _do_ dat? Know who's nearby?"

"Well, Remy, dat'd be telling, wouldn't it?" His eyes twinkled. "An' you can relax. She's accepted."

The younger man collapsed bonelessly into the chair Roisin had so recently vacated. "Good. Now we only need de Source's approval." He glanced at his father. "T'anks for asking her, by the way. It wouldn't have been a fair question fo' me to ask her to stay… help out… She'd feel obligated to say yes to me."

"I know, and it's why I was happy to help," Jean-Luc replied. "She seems to have a lot of potential, you know. I'm just glad she sought me out to talk to me; I'm not sure how I would have brought it up otherwise, without putting her on the spot. You know," he added casually, "She t'ought you were being mysterious when you told her about de Guild."

He looked surprised, then considering. "Well, I guess she's had too many people telling her something which is in one way true, but has a different meaning underneath. She's not used to directness, frankness."

"She's not used to it _yet_," his father reminded him. "I t'ink all we have to be is honest wit' her, an' we'll eventually earn her loyalty. I did tell her dat she is under _no_ obligation to work for us, you know. Please reassure her of it, in case she didn't quite believe me."

"Not a problem. Where is she now?"

"Shopping. I gave her de card."

"Wit' who?"  
"Mercy."

Remy flinched. "Augh. We'll be lucky if dey don't need a truck to bring back the purchases."

"Consider this Roisin's first test. If she can withstand Mercy shopping, she'll be jus' fine."

"Still…"

"She'll be _fine._ Come on, let me beat you at chess."

"Right. You haven't beaten me in two and a half years." Remy scoffed.

"You've been _gone_ fo' two years!"

"It's still true."

Still amicably arguing, the pair left for the study, each well content in his own way with their newest member.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Well, an extra-long chapter for you all… As always, your reviews are MUCHLY appreciated! Feed the authors… or at least their Muses! We'll get into some action the next couple of chapters, I think. And a visit (for us, at least) back to the X-Men. And some other things…


	23. “In a vision once I saw:”

Yes, at long last I return! With an extra long chapter, so… please don't hate me:) As always, reviews are MUCH MUCH MUCH appreciated! (And they're cheaper than tips.) Thanks! —Alara

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Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 23: "In a vision once I saw:"

Logan growled in frustration as he drove the motorcycle back into the grounds of the mansion. The professor's voice echoed in his head. _Any luck, Logan?_

He concentrated on 'sending' his thought back. _Some. But whether it's good luck or bad luck, I can't say. Have the team meet me in your study. I'm gonna need everyone's minds on figuring something out. I don't want to say anything to influence them, though, in case I'm wrong. _

Xavier's mindvoice sounded puzzled. _Very well. We shall see you in a few minutes._

Twenty minutes later, the team was assembled. Logan felt a pang, even now still half-looking for the face he knew would never again be among them. Rogue's loss had been getting easier to bear, so long as nothing _too_ specific reminded him of her, but this…he shook his head. This… made it tough.

Briefly, he recounted his encounter with the biker, drawing a chuckle from those present as the incongruity of the man and his circumstances hit them. Then came the hard part.

"He said he saw your couple of teens making out, Kitty, and he _did_ say the girl looked like a model, with gray-green eyes and long auburn hair under her hat." He paused, to collect himself, and was the only one to hear Kitty's nearly-silent whisper to herself, "Rogue had gray-green eyes."

Logan continued, "The guy she was with… well, Mike, the biker, said he thought he was wearing contacts at first, but then he realized he must have been a mutant. He had glowing red-on-black eyes." He looked at them expectantly.

A silence fell, as everyone tried to figure out _why_ that description seemed familiar. It had taken Logan himself about an hour's ride to worry the memory out of his head, washed over as it was with so many other, more important, memories.

Kurt got it first. "Ze mutant at ze lab complex!" he exclaimed. "Keety and I, we helped him from where he vas being held… But he disappeared during ze fight."

Everyone else exclaimed things along the lines of "Oh, yeah…" and "That's right," as the half-remembered detail matched up.

"Ohmigod!" Kitty said suddenly. "_That's_ the guy from the New Year's Riot news video! You know, the one that had us going out to Pittsburgh and Ohio in the first place."

Xavier eyed her closely. "Are you quite certain, Kitty?"

"Yes! I'm _positive,"_ Kitty said emphatically.

They all looked over when Logan cursed quietly. "Damnit. It _is _adding up. I was almost hoping I was wrong…"

"What is it?"

"The corner where the couple was standing, near the coffee shop-I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, but I guess not. The guy smelled, just faintly, of Rogue, as though he _had_ been near her some time in the past, or like he had something she'd owned on him. The girl's scent was like that, too; maybe she was another captive at the complex."

Xavier considered that for a moment. "Well. I will use Cerebro, and make every effort to find this young man, and the young woman, too, if possible. We still need to find out more about why Rogue was taken in the first place, to be sure it doesn't happen to anyone else. Perhaps he has that information."

"And when we find the ones who took her," Logan growled, "I'm gonna give 'em payback for her."

Xavier didn't contradict him, merely nodded in affirmation, and then dismissed the students.

When everyone else was gone, the world's most powerful mutant slumped a bit in his wheelchair. He was, contrary to popular belief, about as vulnerable to emotions as anyone else, his great gifts notwithstanding. Just now, guilt weighed on him, that he hadn't seen the connection sooner. Never mind that there was no realistic way for him to have seen it; he felt guilty nonetheless. While he _had_ made great progress in grieving for Rogue, and putting her memory behind him, at times like this…

He sighed, and hit a speed-dial key on the telephone. "Doctor Banks? It's Charles Xavier here. I think I need to talk to you… Yes, there's been a new development, you might say…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Shopping with Mercy, Roisin found, was more exhausting than she'd thought possible. True to Jean-Luc's word, she found herself arguing against buying many things that Mercy was 'just _sure_' would look great on her. The girl wasn't wrong, many of the outfits and things _did_ look fabulous on her. But, for instance, hand-sewn knee-high calfskin leather boots would have a hard time looking bad on anyone, and at $800 each boot, they'd _better_ look marvelous.

Much of her day was spent finding very-similar-but-a-tenth-of-the-cost copies of items that Mercy chose for her. It became a humorous, playful game: Mercy would locate the most ungodly expensive shirt in a particular shade of blue she could find, Roisin would try it on to find that it was an astoundingly perfect item for her, then Roisin would scour the nearby shops for the same thing in sateen instead of raw silk, with Mercy cheerfully arguing in favor of the costly item the whole way. It was fun, but terribly tiring. The day ended with both of the young women happy with what had been bought-Roisin hadn't spent as much as she feared, and Mercy had ensured _le rose noir_ now had a wardrobe ready for just about anything the Guild could throw at her. As the day went on, Roisin collected a lot of information and gossip about the Guild, which helped her to get a handle on the mood and flow of the Guild in general. It was a friendly lot, once you were 'in,' and fiercely loyal—to the death, if necessary—of its members. There was some unease at the idea of adding the Assassins into the category of 'fellow members,' of course. But it seemed that the death tolls from the interGuild conflict had been sufficiently high that they were enough to out-weigh any reservations the Thieves had about the proposed peace treaty. Mostly, at least. "But that will all be decided at the annual tribute," Mercy said. "That's also when you will be presented to the Source for official membership into the Guild. It's fortunate you and Remy arrived when you did-otherwise, you'd be waiting a year."

"This 'meet the Source' thing… when is it, exactly? Don't worry, I already know it does no good to ask _what_ is the Source," Roisin added quickly. " 'It's different for every person,' Remy says."

Mercy nodded. "It _is_ different for every person. So even if someone tried to explain it to you, it really would only confuse you worse. Believe me, I know what you're feeling-I was officially made part of the Guild two years ago, and not knowing what was going to happen frustrated me to no end! I got so angry at Henri for not telling me. I thought he was being mysterious. But once I met the Source, it all made sense."

Roisin sighed. "I guess I'll just have to wait, then. When is it?"

"Soon… In fact, this year's annual Tribute is in three days. That's when you'll be presented to _her._"

"_Her_, is it?" Roisin sighed again. "More mysteries. Great."

"Don't worry, the time will go quickly."

"If I keep shopping with _you_, I have no doubt about _that,_" she returned swiftly.

Mercy laughed. "Well, I try."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

True to Mercy's word, the time seemed to fly by, and three nights later, Rogue found herself being led, with most of the Guild members around her, into the wildest part of the swampy bayou that surrounded the Guild seat.

The mood was jovial, rather than solemn, to Rogue's surprise. She commented on it to Mercy, who was the only familiar person close by her. The Guild families, it seemed, always approached the Source separately to present their annual tributes.

"Well, usually you're right. The annual tribute presentation is a serious affair. After all, the Source could, if she chose, eliminate the Guilds entirely if she's unhappy with the way things have been going. And apparently she hasn't been too thrilled the past few years about all the unnecessary deaths. It's why _le roi_ and Guildmaster Bordreaux came up with that cockamamie scheme to marry off Remy and Belladonna, you know." Mercy continued, as they navigated around a particularly noxious pool of swamp water.

"Oh? How so?" Rogue asked, deceptively casual, hoping that the girl's statement meant Remy had been more or less pressured into the marriage.

Mercy gave her a sharp look, unseen in the dark. "Well, two years ago, the Source pitched a fit about the number of deaths, and demanded that the Guild leaders come up with some way to stop it, and she gave them two weeks to come to her with a plan. Unfortunately, the only one of their plans she liked at all was the one to marry 'the children' of the Guilds… and even she didn't like it that much. But her other alternative was to flatten the Guilds altogether, and I guess she really was looking for an excuse not to destroy them."

"Wait…" Rogue lifted a hand. "I thought they only met with this _Source_ once a year?"  
"Officially, yes," Mercy admitted. "But she'll appear if she's decided to meet more—hmm—_privately_ with someone. For instance, when Remy was young, like maybe five or six, he took it into his head to come out here and meet the Source for himself."  
"He walked out _here?" _Rogue asked incredulously, looking around at their obviously dangerous surroundings.

"I think he conned one of the guards into taking him. And the Source was so impressed by his boldness at such a young age, she promised him more-or-less safe passage to visit her."

"Oh." After a pause, Rogue brought the conversation back on track. "So they all agreed on the marriage plan…" she prompted.

"Yes, and things actually went well—a little _too _well, Roisin, if you take my meaning—until the wedding day."

"What happened?"

"Well, everyone was there, on their conspicuous best behavior, except for one prominent missing person: Julien, the bride's brother, couldn't be found. It was a concern, because he'd never been totally happy with the plan to marry off Belladonna in the first place, you see. But Jean-Luc and Marius decided that at least he couldn't cause a scene if he wasn't at the wedding, so they went ahead. Well, everything went perfectly, and people had finally started to relax—or resign themselves, whichever. And of course—" Here Mercy rolled her eyes expressively. "Of _course_ right after Bella said 'I do,' Julien comes charging down the aisle, yelling that over his dead body would his sister marry a filthy Thief. I swear," she said in an aside, "he must have waited and waited for the most dramatic moment to make his entrance, because every eye in the church was on him. Or maybe he was just hoping she'd say, at the last minute, 'I _don't_.' Anyway, since it was a wedding, and the priests don't let us bring weapons into the churches, nobody but Julien had a weapon—not even Marius, his father. So he goes for Remy, quick as anything, and he manages to get Remy in the thigh with the dagger. At that point, all the Thieves start accusing the Assassins of treachery, the Assassins claim to have no knowledge of it—and to be honest, some of the Assassins went right after Julien. One of the biggest fistfights in the last ten years breaks out, and in the tumult, Remy disappeared, Julien got _very_ firmly sat on—they broke his wrist disarming him—and Bella ended up in hysterical tears. That last was a relief, because up 'til then we Thieves had only seen the cold, inhuman, Assassin side of her, which was freaking us all out, since at that time she was only seventeen.

"We guess that Remy made it to a safe house somewhere, because he showed up at the Guild Seat six hours later in different clothes, his leg bandaged up, and with a suitcase. He informed us all that obviously he couldn't stay in New Orleans while Julien was so angry, and he was leaving until he got definite news that it would be safe to come back. He kept in intermittent contact for about another eight, nine months, and then he dropped off the map for about a year. The next thing we heard about him was when he sent Henry Walker down with _his_ tale, and the rest you've been around for."

"Huh," Rogue said consideringly. "Well. Is it always that interesting around here?"

"Only when Remy's in town," came the laughing response. "Oh, but we've got to be quiet now; we're almost there."

An anticipatory silence seemed to wash over the crowd. Rogue glanced around. The Thieves were no less excited, but a veneer at least of solemnity had come over them. Even Rogue felt it, a curious tingle, sort of in the back of her mind, which increased in intensity as they stepped onto the shores of a lake perfectly circular in shape. About a quarter way around the lake she saw another group gathered, with the same air of eager expectation—the Assassins' Guild.

She was given no time to examine them, however. No sooner had the two groups settled into their respective places along the shore than there was an eerily silent blue-white flash from the center of the lake, as though lightning was striking from the lake bed upwards. It was so intense a burst of light that it seemed it must cause some sound, some noise, but the only sound audible was the grasses along the lake's edge rustling softly in a sudden late evening breeze.

The tickling in the back of her mind increased, and suddenly she realized it was this Source—using telepathy! Or something like it, anyway; while the other did not speak in her mind, the feeling was much the same as when Professor X made mental contact.

Suddenly she was _there_, hovering in majestic, remote beauty over the lake, glowing with the same blue-white light. The members of both Guilds began a slow, ritualistic bow; belatedly, Rogue joined in as Mercy tugged at her sleeve. Rogue kept her eyes on the figure, though, as it—_she—_advanced across the lake's surface. She paused a distance from the shore, and imperiously demanded, "Guildmasters, where is my tribute? Show me now."

Her voice resounded oddly; though her voice was perfectly clear, the echoes were strangely flat-sounding, as though the echoes were being abruptly snuffed out like candles mistakenly lit. Rogue considered it, and thought that, perhaps, her voice would go only so far as the waiting people around the lake, but the sound would not carry beyond them. Which made sense, after all; it wouldn't do for centuries of secrecy to be destroyed by someone chasing will-o-wisps in the swamp.

Across the way, three figures stepped forward. Mercy whispered in her ear that they were Marius Bordreaux, his son, Julien, and the much-mentioned Belladonna. The eldest of the trio carefully set down a small, ornately carved box, and backed away.  
Similarly, Jean-Luc, Henri, and Remy stepped forward to offer their own carved box, and very nearly made it back to the waiting Thieves when the woman said, "Hold—wait." They froze in place, peering up at her anxiously. She turned toward their group slowly, and began to advance. Rogue found herself backing slowly away with the rest of the Guild, but unable to take her eyes from the apparition, who was now hovering mere feet in front of the LeBeaus.

Unexpectedly, a smile crossed her face, making her appear more human, Rogue thought. "Remy!" She exclaimed in apparent delight. "_Mon coquin,_ it _is_ you! I had thought you had returned, but thought perhaps it was only 'wishful thinking,' since I have not seen you in two years. I was quite disappointed you did not return last year." She pouted a moment, then apparently shrugged it off, continuing, "No matter. You are here now, as I told dear Jean-Luc to be sure to have you home by then. And of course you will not want to miss another tribute-meeting, _non?_"

Remy swallowed, bowed again, and stammered out, "Not ever if I can help it, I assure you."

She smiled again. "Very well. I am satisfied." She came forward, suddenly standing on very solid, dainty feet when she reached the shore, and scooped up the small box. She still was glowing, however solid she seemed. She pattered her way over to where the Assassins were also waiting, exchanged some words with them, took their box, and, a slight look of irritation on her face, waved for the two groups to come together in one place. "Now, really," she said, exasperated, "de Lafitte brothers knew meeting wit' me was an automatic truce; you all _have_ a peace treaty. Why can't you just stand together?"

Rogue muffled a laugh at the being's tone, so down-to-earth when the Source, herself, was so clearly not. Obviously she was smart enough to change with the times—changing just enough to be understood by them, but staying eternally-the-same enough to be taken seriously by her Guilds.

Rogue was _not_ expecting this—person—to _hear_ her laugh, and fix her with a stare, demanding, "And who is this, pray tell? A new face to me, to be sure."

Jean-Luc shrugged his eyebrows at her as he turned to bring her forward, as if to say, 'Well, you had to be introduced to her _sometime,_ might as well be now, I guess.' Aloud he said, "Lady, allow me to present to you—and to de Assassins—our newest prospective member, Rosin Byrne, who will join our Guild upon your approval."

"Hmm…" the Source stalked in a circle around Rogue, examining her from every angle. "This is _le rose noire,_ is it not?" Jean-Luc nodded, his surprise evident upon his face. Apparently _he_ hadn't told her about her nickname. "_Le Rose Noire_ suits you, _mon chere,_ for all dat it is a name perhaps more suited to the rival Guild here. I t'ink," she said consideringly, "dat you will be most helpful to be in bridging the small gaps dat separate dese two groups. Yes…" She smiled into Rogue's face, inches away, and her sheer presence and personality was so overwhelming that Rogue fought the instinct to back away. "Yes, Rose, I do accept you into my den of T'ieves… and more, I want you with your new outsiders' eyes, to see all dat de Guilds have been, and could be. I will have many uses for you—and your talents." She winked one impossibly blue eye, and said softly, "Now, dis will hurt, child, so don't scream." She touched Rogue gently on the forehead, and stepped away.

It felt like someone was holding a brand to the soft flesh of the inside curve of her left hip down to the inner part of her thigh, a burning, white-hot pain that nearly made her bite her lip in two. It was so sudden that she couldn't even breathe, let alone scream. _Oh my God,_ she thought to herself, looking frantically around, _Why didn't Remy tell me this was going to happen—whatever 'this' is…_

She felt her knees begin to buckle, and suddenly her mind was being bombarded with images, knowledge, the full history of the Guilds as seen by Candra—for that was the name given the Source by her earliest visitors, unimaginatively meaning 'glowing' in Latin. Much to her surprise, there were not only the two New Orleans Guilds, but an entire international network of them, all eventually answering to _her_, here, at her swampy headquarters. _Talk about 'organized crime,'_ Rogue thought sarcastically to herself. _It's an International House of Law-breakers!_ She saw the whole grand structure, and how _everyone_ reported to those above him in two great intertwined branches, culminating in the two leaders who stood nearby. They, of course, answered directly to Candra, who took all of their knowledge and amassed it to keep things running smoothly across the globe.

As she slowly came back to herself, Rogue realized that the Guild leaders were a little ways away, discussing something intensely with Candra. Jean-Luc looked upset, Marius looked concerned, and Candra was impassive, turning back the men's arguments with a few words. The rest of the Guilds were gathered in small groups; it seemed that the 'official' part of the tribute-offering had ended while she was…well, completely out of it.

Rogue was distracted by a light touch on her arm. She looked around to see a startlingly _handsome_ young man, with blond hair and deep blue eyes, offering her a hand up to her feet. She accepted gratefully, still feeling unsteady on her feet. "Thanks," she said.

He waved it off. "Thanks are not necessary, _belle,_" he said. "I daresay all of us have been knocked over by de Source at one time or another. But I am being rude. Allow me to present myself. I am Julien Bordreaux, of de Assassins' Guild."

His name didn't surprise her; she thought she'd recognized him from the Assassins' Guild tribute-offering trio. "Well, I do thank you. Do people often collapse when they meet her?" She nodded in Candra's direction.

"Not so often," a smooth female voice came from behind her. She turned to see a female, younger version of Julien in front of her, virtually identical except that her eyes were an arresting violet, and well… you'd never mistake her curvy figure for her brother's, even in loose clothing. Her hair was utterly golden, glistening even in the weak moonlight as it rippled in rich waves down her back.

Rogue firmly told herself that she was _not_ jealous, and offered her hand. "Hi. I'm—"

"'_Le Rose Noire,'_ I know, we _all _heard," Belladonna winked, for it could only be she, and introduced herself. "In answer to your question, I don't believe too many people have ever been literally knocked over by de Source, but then again, not too many people are given individual notice by her, either." She shrugged one elegantly curved shoulder, and gave Rogue an impish look.

Despite herself, Rogue found herself warming to the girl, who seemed to have a good sense of the ridiculous, at least. Perhaps an overly-healthy sense of humor came with planning people's murders for a living.

Her arm was suddenly taken by Julien, who said, "You are still looking pale; let me find you somewhere to sit, something to eat. I don't know what she did to you, but 'Donna's right—not too many people collapse at the tribute." He smiled charmingly at her, and with a sudden pang, Rogue realized how long it had been since Remy had smiled at _her_ like that.

_Maybe I was right,_ she thought doubtfully. _Maybe now that he's back in the Guild, he doesn't need me around anymore. But then, why would he have me brought into the Guild? Or was it his father who brought me in—after all, the man told me point blank he wants me to use my mutation for their heists. And now their Source is basically telling me the same thing, so maybe Remy didn't have as much to do with me coming in as I thought… I was crazy to think a guy like him could ever need—or even want—a girl like me as a—a girlfriend, or whatever. But what about the kiss at New Year's? Of course, it hasn't been repeated—in any way—since then, and any time we'd have had to sit down and just—hang out, or whatever, has been taken up by his meetings or training sessions or something… We haven't even worked on controlling my mutation in a few weeks, at least, and we haven't just talked in forever… _

"Rose?" Julien prompted her, and she came back to herself.

"Why, I think I would dearly appreciate a hand back to someplace I could sit," she said, willing to _be_ charmed by this admittedly attractive man, and amused by the chatter of his sister, which continued as they walked away. She glanced around before they left the clearing—no Remy. _Oh well,_ she thought stubbornly, angry at his absence—_Doesn't he _care_ if I'm all right after his precious Source knocked me ass over teakettle?—_ and went with the Bordreaux's, stopping only to let Mercy know where she was going so the Thieves could get her on their way back to the house.

Mercy didn't seem surprised, but commented, "I heard Remy was looking for you, did he find you?"

"Obviously not," she replied, unable to keep a trace of bitterness from her voice. "But really, how hard could he possibly have been looking? I've been over there the whole time."

Mercy gave her friend a bit of a strange look. "Are you all right? Did you and Remy have an argument?"

"He'd have to _talk_ to me to have an argument," Rogue pointed out. She shrugged desultorily. "And I haven't even _seen_ him in three weeks, so…"

"Oh." Mercy nodded. "He _can _be an idiot. I'll have Henri have a word with him. Just—well, be careful. Julien almost never really means what he says, but he likes to flirt."

"Don't worry," Rogue assured her. "I'm not looking to get involved or anything… But it'd be nice to have a guy friend around who _wasn't_ always running off to meetings or whatever."

Mercy nodded her understanding, and waved her good-bye. "It's odd," she commented to Henri, who had drifted over to her. "You can tell Remy's completely smitten by her—he never shuts up about her, after all—and I thought she liked him, too, but from the way she was talking just now, it sounds like she considers Remy only a friend. What do you think?"

"I t'ink you _femmes _exult in being mysterious," Henri teased, and dodged the mock-punch she threw his way. "I also t'ink _mon frere_ is more clueless about _dis_ _femme_ dan any other he's met, _non?_ Well, I suppose he'll learn."

"Yeah, _you_ did, and he's a lot quicker than you." Mercy deadpanned, and squealed as he grabbed her around the waist, tickling her.

They missed Remy's swift passing, as he looked for Rogue, only to learn she had gone off on the arm of the handsome Julien, who at one time had tried to kill him.

He walked home alone.

-.-.-.-.-.-

The next morning was quiet, most of the Guild members having had a late night. Remy sat in the kitchen alone, and sipped his coffee, pondering the vexing girl he'd brought home, and wondering what her going off with the Assassins last night could mean.

Hadn't he been there with her in the darkest time of her life? Hadn't he heard her screaming, and felt pain for her, before he ever even met her? If he concentrated, he could almost hear her now—

Suddenly he realized that he _could_ hear her now: the shriek had come from the guest bathroom upstairs. He charged up and was outside the door in a minute. He knocked. "_Chere? _Everything all right? What's going on?"

"…Remy?"

"_Oui_,_ chere_, let me in. What's wrong?"

There was silence for a moment, then: "Uhm… go get Mercy, please."

_She had gone off with Julien last night. I didn't see what state she came back in. _ Horrific images flashed through his mind. "Is everything all right?" he asked again, more intensely.

"…Yeah. Just _please, go get Mercy._"

"I'll be right back." He promised, and ran through the halls to Mercy's room. She opened the door, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Remy? What is it?"

"It's Roisin," he explained plaintively. "She's locked herself in de bat'room and is asking for you."

Mercy's eyes popped wide open at that, and she ducked behind the door and emerged, cinching a robe closed as she hurried down the corridor.

They arrived back at the door, still firmly closed.

Mercy tentatively knocked. "_Rose?_"

The door opened, a pale hand reached out, and hauled Mercy in bodily, the door clunking solidly shut behind her.

"Please tell me what _this_ is??" Rogue sounded half-angry, half-upset. Remy heard Mercy draw a quick breath in.

"Oooch." She said. "_That_ must've hurt." Remy's alarm increased, despite the calmness of Mercy's tone. _What_ had Julien _done_ to Rose?!

"It did." This was obviously through gritted teeth.

"Well," and to Remy's relief Mercy sounded amused. "It looks like you've been marked.

There was a groan, and the sound of a head _thunk_ing against the wall.

"At least it's not easily visible," Mercy sounded encouraging. "Come on. Get dressed and come downstairs and have some coffee; you've had a bit of a shock."

She emerged from the room to find Remy still outside, nearly pulling his hair out by this time. "What? What is it?" he asked, as soon as they were back in the kitchen.

"Well, of course no one warned her that the Source might mark her." She sipped some coffee—stealing Remy's mug in the process. "It seems that Candra has a bit of a sense of humor."

Remy shook his head, confused. "What? And that's my coffee."

"Get some more." He sighed and did so. "She _tattooed_ her," Mercy said. "From the inside of her hip bone to a quarter way down her thigh, she's marked with the Guild logo… surrounded by black roses."

"Hm." Remy sat back in his chair, much calmer knowing Julien had nothing to do with Rose's upset. "Tattooed her. Like me and Henri?"

Mercy nodded. "Exactly… only… more dainty, if that's the word. A more, um, delicate design. I had no idea she was so creative."

"Candra always has surprises," Remy advised her dryly. "Guess I forgot to tell de _femme _that." He reached for his fresh cup of coffee, but paused as he heard someone coming rapidly down the stairs.

Rogue stalked in and glared at Remy. Without a word, she marched over, snatched his coffee from the table, sat, and drained half the mug. "Y'know, Remy," she said, pointing at him. "There's secrets… an' then there's _secrets._ Just for future reference, the kind o' secrets where I end up _ma_gically tat_too_ed by a mystical ancient being..? _Those_ secrets, you tell me in advance. _Capisce?"_

He smiled weakly at her. "Sure, _chere._ Whatever you say." Mercy moved away, and silently counted down in her head. He didn't even make it to ten before he asked, smirking "So… can't Remy see it?"

It was a good thing he had an excellent 'duck' reflex.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Early the next week, the Bordreauxs arrived, for what Remy considered a quite pleasant bit of business. He and Belladonna were finally going to have their sham marriage annulled. Not, mind, that the marriage had particularly interfered with his life thus far, but one never knew.

To everyone but Mercy's surprise, Belladonna—or "Donna," as she apparently preferred to be called—greeted Rogue by name. "Rose!" She sang out, upon seeing the other young woman. "How are you? Oh, we _do_ have to go shopping sometime, didn't we say we would?" Rose laughed and agreed that yes, they would, but only if they could take the expert along.

"The expert? And who is that?"

Grinning, Rose answered her, "That would be Mercy, here. Henri's girlfriend."

"Ah, so de T'ieves are hiding a shopper in their midst? This peace treaty gets better every day." All three young women laughed; Julien came over, apparently drawn by the sound.

"Ah, t'ree _belle femmes_, all in a row," he said. "I must've picked the right corner to stand in, _non?" _All three women rolled their eyes.

Belladonna made a face. "Julien, honestly, dat was one of de worst lines you've ever used."

"_Oui_, but it got a reaction, didn't it?"

"What, 'Any reaction is better dan none?'" Donna mocked him. "You weren't always so desperate, _mon fils._ But—ah! I see the papers are ready to be signed; I will return shortly."

Julien turned his head to watch her go, and Rogue couldn't help commenting to herself on just how damned attractive he was…

Across the room, Remy jerked as though stung, and, unseen, his despairing gaze swung to the slight figure in the corner.

…And while Julien was also annoying as all get out with his constant attempts at flattery, there was no denying he _was_ gorgeous. She mentally shrugged as he turned back toward her. He was a little _too_ perfect-looking for her tastes, but still, seemed a nice enough sort of person. And she hadn't been lying when she told Mercy she wanted a guy friend sometimes. Evan and Kurt had been like that for her, and while she certainly hoped none of her new friendships ended as badly as _those_ had, still she craved the companionship.

Now, if she only could get _him_ to understand that…

During the next ten minutes or so, they made slightly awkward conversation, he complimenting her in some way, she turning it aside or ignoring it altogether, hoping he would take the hint. She didn't want to alienate him, though. Finally, she said outright, "Look, Julien, you're a nice guy and all, but I really am not looking to get involved with you." He winked and said, "Of that, we shall see, _belle femme_." Relief came in the form of Donna, as she rejoined them. "Well, _that's_ finally over with," she said, an immense air of satisfaction exuding from her. Then, swiftly catching wind of the tension between her new friend and her brother, she skillfully extracted Rose from the conversation. "About that shopping…" A few minutes later, she deposited Rose nearby Remy, hoping one or the other of that pair would take the hint, and swept, very annoyed, back to Julien.

"Julien, don't be an idiot. It's plain as day Rose is Remy's girl. Leave them be."

Defensively he replied, "She doesn't have a ring on her finger."

"So? I _did_ have a ring on my finger, and that didn't stop you from interfering. Obviously _that_ is no deterrent."

"She didn't _say_ she was seeing him," Julian returned.

Donna made a sound of exasperation. "Well, she _wouldn't_, idiot—it's not official, even between the two of them."

"In that case, where's de harm? Woman's got to have a chance to choose who she wants to be with."

Belle sighed. "Well, _don't_ say I didn't warn you. And I _won't_ help you, either. She's good for Remy."

He looked her in the eye, and replied, "But is _he_ any better for _her_ than me? I deserve de chance to at least try, Belle."

_Well…_ Belle considered. _That much is true. He does deserve the _chance_, however hopeless I think it to be. And anyway, just because he pursues her, doesn't mean she'll leave Remy._ "Well. I'm still not helping you. I happen to like her, and wouldn't inflict _you_ on her willingly." She said bitingly.

He smiled at his sister. If she was totally opposed to the idea, she would have said so, and she _could_ make his life much more difficult.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

So… Comments? Reviews? Critiques? All are welcome.


	24. “A savage place!”

OK, well… more action here for you all. And don't worry, this is more the first half of a chapter, but it got too long for one chapter so I chopped it at a good stopping point (cliffhanger, whatever you wanna call it). Most of the next chapter is written, therefore; I just have to finish it & clean it up.

Reviews help the writing process, though! (Insert shameless plug here.)

(Oh, wait. I just did.)

Well… Enjoy! As always, let me know what you think.  
--Alara

PS. Also, keep in mind that "Rose" as the name, at least, is pronounced in the French, sort of, a syllable-and-a-half. Ish. ROEZ(eh) :)

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Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 24: "A savage place!"

Over the next several weeks, Julian began—cautiously—to court Roisin; as she became better friends with 'Donna, she and Julian ran into each other frequently. 'Donna, it turned out, was something of a trendsetter amongst the late-teen and early-twenties crown of New Orleans' Guilds. She quickly shortened _le Rose Noire's _name even further, to just "Rose." To Rogue's chagrin, the shorter—_soo _feminine—nickname stuck. _Oh well,_ she thought, bemused, _at least the Thieves are still calling me Rose Noire. _(It also helped her temper to pay 'Donna back by refusing to call her by anything other than "Belle.") During this time, to absolutely everyone's surprise, she and Belle and Mercy became a fairly close-knit trio of friends, with Julien as an often-tolerated hanger-on. Belladonna often told him, in a grown-up little sister sort of way, to leave them alone and that he was wasting his time panting after Rose. It would have been more embarrassing if it wasn't true, but since it was, Rose appreciated her defense. Julien, it appeared, couldn't take a hint. Or a "no." Or even a "heck, no," or even a "Julien, you idiot, just friends means _just friends"_ for an answer. So the trio of young women tolerated him—no one was forgetting he'd stabbed Remy once upon a time for being forced to marry Julien's sister—and they lost him in crowds whenever possible, to the eternal amusement and annoyance of Belladonna's bodyguard-turned-boyfriend, Ed.

Remy watched Julian's obvious interest—and Rose's lukewarm-but-not-unfriendly response—with growing frustration. He recalled vividly her admonishment that simply having gone through awful things with her did not give him any particular claim upon her, so he held his tongue, when every day, all he really wanted to do was take her in his arms and beg her to never look at another man.

Finally he asked Henri, with his long-term girlfriend and presumed big-brother experience, for help.

"Tough one, Remy," his brother mused, leaning back in his chair. "Y' can't risk offending de Assassins by openly getting in his way, but y' don' want to let her go."

"Dat's about it." Remy replied glumly.

"Well, you've got to ask yourself, do you _really_ love her? Enough to let her go, if that's what's best? If you're de best for her, let her know it. If you t'ink _Julien_ might be better—" his tone indicated how likely he thought _that_ was "—den give him a chance. After all, if she _does_ love you—and I think she does—she'll choose you anyway." He placed a bracing hand on Remy's shoulder. "Good luck, _mon frere._"

"T'anks," Remy returned, a little sourly. 'Let Julien have a go at her' was hardly what he wanted to hear, but perhaps it was the best advice, given the precarious political situation. His brother left him to his thoughts, and Remy remained staring contemplatively into the fire, sipping his bourbon, thinking about his would-be girlfriend.

_Girlfriend? Is that what she is to me now?_ Remy thought, startled that the thought had crossed his mind. _We've never really discussed it… but we _couldn't_… we can't be like a normal couple, now, can we? Couple of mutants like ourselves, and never mind the fact that I'm a Thief and she's—well—she's still got a lot of things on her plate, emotionally speaking. _

_I _think_ she's attracted to me, though—I _know_ I'm attracted to her… Her beauty, intelligence, charm, that vulnerability that I'm pretty sure I'm the only one she's shown that to... But then, she _is_ vulnerable. And Dieu above knows, I've charmed other _femmes _without trying or intending to before… _

_Is that what's happening here? Have I charmed her? Taken advantage of the fact that I'm the first person to touch her in how long? Maybe she only _thinks_ she's attracted to me-after all, from the time we were in the Program together to now, it's not like she could get to know anyone else very well. Until now. Until Julien. And since I've helped her along with her powers, she's bound to feel grateful toward me. Or maybe I'm misreading it all, and she just wants to be friends…_

He drank a little too much bourbon, woke late the next day in a foul mood, sniped at anyone he came across, and avoided Rose at all costs. He knew she was looking for him—everyone who ran into him told him so. The day after that, he mostly stayed in his room, and once, when he _sensed_ Rose was standing on the other side of the door, he stayed utterly still, hoping she'd assume he'd snuck out somewhere. It was agony to know she was ten feet away, only a door between them. At the same time he reminded himself he had no right to confess his feelings to her—it would be too much pressure on her—she'd feel obligated to reciprocate, even if she didn't really mean it. The terrifying thought of speaking all to her and the guilt he felt for wanting to do so were his own purgatory, and he reveled in their miseries, figuring that he'd helped remove her from the friends she'd known, however willing she'd seemed to leave them; he couldn't prevent her from making whatever—relationships—she found here that she wanted to pursue.

Two days later, he leapt at the chance to leave town on Guild business. If she was going to continue letting Julian pay her compliments, and touch her gently on the arm, and all the rest, that was fine, he wouldn't say anything—_anything—_ but he certainly didn't have to stick around to watch. His haggard face in the mirror convinced him; his own feelings were tormenting him enough, he certainly didn't need to deliberately rub salt in his wounds.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rose only found out about the trip after he'd gone to Chicago, and she raged her hurt and anger to Mercy and 'Donna. Mercy sympathized, saying Remy was a male, and could only expect to understand so much; 'Donna was more practical. "Let's do something about it."

Rose stared at her in surprise, caught mid-rant. "What?"

"He _is_ being stupid. Even I could tell before I really met you that you and Remy have something. A bond, a connection, _something_ special that most of the rest of us don't have. And Remy _has_ to know it's there; you can feel it, can't you? I mean, _I_ can tell there's something, and I'm not even involved."

"Yes…" Rose said slowly. "We have, and we've had a bond since… since _Trask._" She spat out the name. "And it's only gotten stronger the more we've spent time together." Her shoulders slumped. "But we haven't been spending time together at all, and the other day, I stood outside his room for ten minutes. I _knew,_ I absolutely _knew_ he was in there… but I was afraid if I knocked, he wouldn't answer. Maybe… maybe he does feel our… bond, or whatever it is, and he doesn't _want_ it to get stronger. Is that why he's avoiding me? Does he not want to be connected to me?" She looked up at her two friends, pale at even the thought, the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

Mercy suddenly remembered some of the things Remy had mentioned in passing, that Rose was dealing with some very severe abandonment issues, by, apparently, everyone who she'd ever really cared for or trusted in her life. _I'm gonna kick Remy's ass for doing this to her,_ she thought angrily. _And I'll get 'Donna to help._

"Um. Well. I think, uh…" She started gently, fishing for words that wouldn't hurt Rose further.

She and Rose jumped when 'Donna let out a bray of laughter. "Not want you?" she said, with just the right mix of disbelief and scorn in her voice. "O' _course_ he wants you, it's why he's avoiding you so much. Remy can be such a gentlemanly moron sometimes," she said, shaking her head. "He wants you to be wit' him so badly, he's starving himself to death making sure you have a choice."

The other two looked at her, Rose's expression now more puzzled than hurt. "Uh… Why would he think she didn't have a choice?" Mercy finally asked, cautiously.

"One o' de few times we met befo' our 'wedding,'" 'Donna explained, "Remy tol' me 'bout a secondary power o' his, besides his being able to make t'ings explode. He's got empathy, which means he can feel what ot'ers are feeling, and, I suspect, _make_ ot'ers feel his own strong feelings. An' what he feels for you," she pointed at Rose, "is _certainly_ strong. You just have to _look_ at him to know. But, of course, you _haven't_ seen him, so you _can't _know."

"So," Rose said slowly, "You think that because he's been avoiding me, it's a sign that he _does_ feel—something—for me? And he doesn't want me feeling that same thing for him just because he's projecting it on to me, even accidentally?"

"Somet'ing like dat."

Abruptly, Rose was angry again. "So: He won't come near me, so I can't _tell_ him how I feel; he doesn't _know _how I feel, so he won't come near me so he doesn't influence me to feel something I don't; he won't see me, so he doesn't _know _how friggin' _miserable _he's makin' me by refusing to see me!" She blew her breath out, furious. "Arrgh! _Why_ is he doin' this? Why is he being so utterly _stupid?!"_

Donna and Mercy exchanged glances. "Uh… the answer to your first question is, because he loves you, and the second—"

"—is easy," 'Donna finished flatly. "He's so stupid about this _because he's a guy_."

Rose sat abruptly. "Oh." She considered. "Is _that_ why. Huh. Makes sense." She nodded, then looked expectantly at the other two. "So, let's go after him. I want to have a talk."

The other two, again, stared at her. "What?"

"Nothing's keeping us here. We're free Guildmembers. No reason we shouldn't go to Chicago, on, oh, say, a shopping trip, and if we happen to meet Remy there," she shrugged, "not _our_ fault. Must be fate, right?"

Mercy smiled at her logic. "Right." 'Donna laughed, and then the three of them got down to planning.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The next day found them walking through the Windy City, to all appearances three young women whose parents had let them go on a shopping spree. Rose had wanted to hide her hair under a hat, for safety's sake, but 'Donna and Mercy had talked her out of it, pointing out that if the people after her, humans all, could spot her in the middle of Chicago, a hat wasn't going to do much to disguise her. Heads turned as the trio of women laughed their way down the street: a tall _very_ shapely blonde, a petite, sweet-faced brunette, and a beautiful auburn-haired girl with an unusual dye job.

Rose noticed the looks they were getting, and had a brief moment of alarm, thinking that _too many _people were noticing them. Then common sense reasserted itself: Trask and the FBI and the police and whoever else had jumped on the 'find Rose and Remy' bandwagon were hardly going to have a whole city of agents, and if they did, they were screwed anyway. So, it must be the novelty of the matched set of them, carefree and strolling along the shop fronts and streets. Or maybe it was the bodyguards.

Yeah, it was probably the bodyguards.

"Do Ed and Joe have to be so… _bodyguardy_?" Rose asked 'Donna, frustrated. Ed was the bodyguard from the Assassins' Guild (and 'Donna's current boyfriend), and Joe was the bodyguard Jean-Luc had insisted she and Mercy take with them, pretending not to know why they suddenly wanted to go to Chicago.

"What do you mean, 'bodyguardy'?" the blonde laughed, violet eyes sparkling in the early April sun.

Rose gestured expressively at Ed and Joe, who were currently checking out a shoe store before they'd allow the trio to enter. "_What_ are they looking for? I mean, it's not like someone's going to try to kill us with a loafer!"

"But stilettos, they're _murder,_" Mercy deadpanned.

Before either of them could reply to the joke, Ed appeared in the doorway. "It's clear," he said, his gaze moving along the street. "You can come in."

Rose fixed 'Donna with a sarcastic look. "And you ask, 'what do I mean, bodyguardy?'"

"Rose… Are you _sure_ Remy's in this area? A shopping district… it doesn't seem like de place for one o' de Guild's usual jobs." Mercy said, as they (finally) entered the store.

"Well, I kinda know he's in the area," she replied, idly examining a sandal. "It's sort of like radar, or maybe like playing the game Hot and Cold. I don't exactly know where he is in relation to me, but I mostly know when I'm not heading toward him. It's more of, 'go this general direction,' rather than anything specific, like 'head north-northeast'."

"Oh, we've actually been heading southeast," Joe put in, from his position near the door. Rose shot him an irritated glance, rolled her eyes again, and continued.

"I think that if his emotions run high, for whatever reason, I'll be able to home in on him a little better—or maybe a lot better. I just don't know; I haven't tried to track him through this… whatever-it-is that we share."

"Interesting," 'Donna said. "Well, we'll just have to wait 'til somet'ing happens to make Remy happy or sad or angry or whatever, and follow you den. Aren't these heels adorable?"

"Yeah, they're—" Rose's gaze suddenly unfocused. "How 'bout terrified?"

Donna frowned at the shoe in her hand, then at Rose. "Well, geeze, I know dey're an unusual color, but I hardly t'ink dey're terrifying."

"No. Remy." Her voice was tight, and Donna and Mercy looked at her more intently. Rose said, "It's Remy… something's happened. He's… angry. And scared. I've got to—uhm—" With no more warning than that, she bolted out the door, past a very surprised Ed and Joe.

"Hey!" Ed turned, only to duck out of the way as Mercy and 'Donna pelted after Rose, who was dodging through foot traffic as though her life depended on it.

They had to have made a bizarre sight, three young women running full-tilt thorough the downtown Chicago area in the middle of an April afternoon, quickly followed by two very confused-looking bodyguards. Rose spent no time worrying about the stir she was no doubt causing, instead focusing in on that line inside of her that shouted, _Get to Remy! He needs you!_

She almost ran right past the alleyway, and nearly knocked over an elderly couple coming to an abrupt halt, pivoting on one toe toward the dark, long alley. She heard voices echoing along the high walls on either side; one voice was distinctively Remy's, though she couldn't make out the words.

She crept down the alley, which fortunately was fairly clean and clear of debris. She moved slowly, intent on not being heard as the shadowy figures gradually came into clearer and clearer focus. A slight scuff behind her cause her to whirl silently, dropping into a defensive stance. _Great, just forget people can still sneak up on ya, why don'cha? _She taunted herself sarcastically, and relaxed when she realized it was 'Donna behind her.

"Mercy an' de boys are watchin' de alley entrance," the blonde barely breathed the murmur. "If we can get de rats who're wit' Remy to run out, dey can get 'em."

"I don't know what's going on, yet," Rose muttered back. "Haven't got close enough. We're not doing _anything_, though, if it'll put Remy in danger." Quiet as she was, 'Donna was still taken back by the fierceness in the other girl's voice, and wordlessly nodded her agreement.

As they moved further down the narrow path, a Dumpster loomed suddenly out of the darkness. Rose wasted no time in scurrying up beside it to peer cautiously out from behind its shelter. 'Donna was half a second behind her, and literally bit her lip sharply to keep a startled sound from issuing from her lips when she peeked around the metal edge.

Remy was kneeling facing the alley's end, his back to them, one knee in a puddle, his hands laced behind his head. His duster spread out around him. A man stood directly behind him, only about twelve feet away from where the two girls hid, with a gun trained on the back of the Cajun's skull.

Two very military boots were planted in front of Remy, just short of the puddle. The figure above the boots was middle-aged, stocky, and dressed in fatigues. His hands were curled into fists, and there was blood on the knuckles of one hand.

It was Rose's turn to bite back an oath, as his presence hit her like a boot to the gut:

Trask.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"…Where is she?" the ex-sergeant was asking Remy, lifting his hand for another strike. The Cajun's face was already bruising, and blood ran, irritatingly steadily, from his nose, as he glared up at the maniac. He spared a glance for the two other Thieves who had accompanied him; they were slumped in a dirty corner of the alley, stun-gunned into unconsciousness. _Well, at least he isn't going to hurt them,_ Remy thought, half-gratefully, half sourly. _How'd the batard find me, anyway? I only used my powers for maybe ten minutes…_

"I know you know where she is, boy!" _Smack._ A fresh rivulet of blood started to flow; Remy thought that this time, he'd split the skin stretching over his eyebrow.

"Why do you t'ink she's here?" He asked reasonably, around swollen lips. He didn't need to ask who 'she' was. "So far 's I know, she's could be anywhere. Haven't even seen her in weeks." He said more-or-less truthfully. He had a suspicion she was somewhere in Chicago—he'd felt her presence more than once—but every time he looked, she wasn't there. He was starting to wonder if he was becoming obsessed. On the one hand, he hoped she _was_ here, since it would mean he _wasn't _becoming some creepy maniac; on the other, he'd rather she were no closer to Trask than Tibet.

He wasn't going to bet on that, though, knowing his Rose Noire.

And in any case, he'd rather _he_ was no closer to Trask than Tibet, but so much for wishes.

"I know she's got to be here," Trask answered his question, much to his surprise. "She has to be here because _you're_ here, and you escaped with her. I was a young man once, too; I know what the hormones do; I sure wouldn't have let something like her go too far. Especially since I prepared her so well for you, however accidentally."

Remy felt himself go cold at the implications, but had to ask. "What d' y' mean?" He tried not to snarl. _If I keep him talking long enough, I'm bound to get some better chance of getting out alive… or at least taking _him_ down with me. _

"Stupid mutant." Trask scoffed. "I would have thought everyone in that cellblock could hear her, those times I was working on her. She got quite noisy, sometimes. Oh, yes," he answered the angry flash in Remy's eyes. "I took a very _personal_ interest in that particular mutant. Oh, I didn't rape her," he said swiftly, as Remy made a sharp movement, which was abruptly cut off by the gun's muzzle being shoved into the back of his neck.

"No, I didn't want her in that way at all. She is, after all, a _mutant."_ He said it in the way one might say "animal" in the same context; utter disgust at the thought. "No, I wanted her to want _me_ like that."

"You see," he said, bending his face close to Remy's, his foul breath making the younger man grimace, "You see, that female mutant has the potential to be the deadliest weapon our country has ever seen. Better than the Captain America project, even. Once tamed, I could use her to wipe out the rest of you evolutionary mistakes, and then it'd be just the cost of a bullet and…" he spread his empty hands gleefully. "Boom. _No more mutants_. That's just one possible use for her." He paused, smiled, and continued. "However… She was a little too old to be easily molded when I learned about her."

"When I heard about her, she had just moved in with Charles Xavier and his lofty, optimistic, rosy ideas. Humans and mutants living in peace," he scoffed. "What rubbish. She, however, was just credible enough to take those silly heroic ideals to heart. For a while, I began to lose hope of ever getting inside her mind, and then, oh then… she lost control. Spectacularly! I had no idea she'd taken impressions of so many. It re-energized in me my drive to haveher, whatever the cost. All of Xavier's X-men couldn't take her down; it was only after she was exhausted, physically, emotionally, and power-wise, that that damned Wolverine was able to get through to her. And then I realized… _that_ was the key.

"Wolverine, you see, was her mentor, or as close as one got in that house of freaks." Trask sounded derisive. "In any case, he was the one she was emotionally attached to the most. When he talked to her, she started to calm down, and eventually collapsed." He smiled suddenly into Remy's face; Remy didn't jump because of the gun still being pressed painfully, steadily, into the top of his spinal column, but he wanted to, at that cruel smile.

That smile made him more uneasy than anything Trask had said yet. The glee in his voice as he lovingly described his plan sickened Remy, yet the avaricious gleam in his smile when he spoke of her terrified him. Briefly, he wondered why he was being told all of this, and then thought that perhaps Trask was hoping he'd be shocked into accidentally revealing where Rose was. Well, he wouldn't, no matter how bad it got, and he had the uneasy feeling that the tale was going to get very bad indeed.

"Seeing her collapse," the maniac was saying, "made everything fall together. To control her, I had to first debilitate her wholly, mind, body, spirit, and powers. Then, once she was nearly a shell, I had to replace her attachment to Wolverine with an attachment to me. The mere fact that she wasn't immediately rescued helped," he added incidentally. "The emotional bonds to her former 'teammates' were already unraveled, or getting there. They did something to her after her collapse that aided me immensely. I'll have to remember to drop Xavier a thank-you note… And then… then I realized that her powers made her _literally_ unable to touch _anyone,_ for any length of time. She hadn't touched anyone for years, and even involuntary touches had been for mere seconds only. Do you know," he asked Remy conversationally, "When infants are born premature, it is essential that they be held near-constantly? Those who do not have direct human contact almost invariably die. The human system is wired to _require_ the touch of others. Well, take one who hasn't had that contact for years, throw in a confusion of raging hormones, adolescent self-doubt, teenage curiosity, and a body rapidly burgeoning into lush womanhood… I had a ready-made addict to sensation itself, and an addict will do _anything_ to get her drug of choice, once hooked. And one's first sexual sensations are particularly intense, when administered and drawn out properly." He smiled reminiscently. "Even unconscious, she can moan like a whore. But I'm sure you know that by now, so I ask again: Where is she?" He eyed Remy intently; a prod from the gun reminded a rage-blinded Remy that it would be completely stupid to punch Trask in the face.

He wanted to, anyway.

After all, he was dead in any case, and if they killed him now, he couldn't give any inadvertent hints as to Rose's whereabouts. Upon hearing of his death, the Guild would bury her, keep her safe within their ranks. That was all that mattered.

And then he felt the roil of her unmistakable emotional signature nearby, obviously close enough to hear Trask speaking. He would bet a year's heists she was within thirty feet of him, and he cursed her stubbornness, and started trying to think of a way out of this. The alley floor close to him was scrupulously clean; there were no convenient bits of trash he might charge up as a distraction.

"So," he asked, more to distract Trask than to get an answer, "How'd you find me?"

"Oh, nothing easier." Trask waved his hand airily. "It's how I found you in Ohio. There is a very eager young intern in the Federal Witness Protection program, and he's so winsome that the agents often accidentally give him access to files they shouldn't, such as tracking records and sightings. The boy is my very devoted nephew, and believes that I am a civilian counselor for those poor victims, and he is only too happy to help me get to the victims in any way I can. Isn't family wonderful?"

"Great," Remy grated out, cursing their luck and Trask's deviousness.

"Yes, isn't it. It means I can find you _where ever you are_ in the United States, without lifting a finger. Except," Trask's voice sounded annoyed, "Apparently the Feds lost you in the swamp you call Louisiana, so I think I'm going to keep you around until _she_ leaves that godforsaken state and the Feds get a tail on her again." He examined the man kneeling in front of him, and gestured for the gunman to back off. He did, by about three inches.

"Yes…" Trask said slowly. "I'll keep you 'til I have her. I'm impatient, though." He clouted Remy again, and while the Cajun reeled with dizziness, Trask immobilized his head. He gripped Remy's jaw painfully with one hand, and withdrew a Swiss Army knife with the other, flicking open the corkscrew and knife attachments as he did so, nodding thoughtfully. "I think perhaps I will send one of these distinctive eyes of yours on a tour through the major towns of Louisiana; that should flush her out." He lowered the shiny instrument toward Remy's swollen, bleeding face.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	25. “Down the green hill athwart a cedarn co

Hello, all! Chapter 25 here for you… Just got back from a lovely 2-week vacation wherein, amongst other things, I hiked the Grand Canyon, waded a desert stream scented of sage, walked approximately ten miles up and down San Francisco's hills, and partied in Pure.  
MUCH fun. Also very expensive, so I'm going to hide at home and write and not-spend-money for a while, so here are your chances to send me any little one-off stories you'd like to see, or commentaries on this one, or suggestions/encouragement for the future projects mentioned in my profile.

Glad to be back, though!

Enjoy. –Alara

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 25: "Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!"

Belladonna Bordreaux was one tough woman; she'd personally killed three people already in her line of work, yet even she was disgusted by the depravity exhibited by the guy in the pseudo-military uniform. At one point in the man's narrative, Rose had begun to silently shake, her eyes fixed on Remy and her hands clenched into helpless fists. Her reaction didn't surprise 'Donna, assuming that even a tenth of what the guy was saying was true. Grimly, she reviewed her options for getting Remy out more-or-less alive; she knew she could take the gunman or Trask, but probably not both at once without risking Remy or Rose.

She was surprised, then, when Rose touched her lightly on the arm, leaned in close, and whispered, "Got a mirror?"

She did, and got it out without taking her sight from Rose: She'd been shaking not with terror, but with rage that blanketed her like a cloak. Cautiously, she edged out of the way as Rose flashed what were unmistakably coded messages down the alley, to Mercy and Joe, she supposed. The Assassins' Guild used sign language; apparently the Thieves' Guild had solved the 'close line-of-sight' issue of silent communication using mirrors.

Rose leaned close to her again and whispered, "Be ready to take out the gunman." 'Donna nodded, and tensed herself to spring for his trigger hand. Rose's attention went back to Remy, and she didn't take her eyes off of him for the rest of Trask's monologue. When he got the corkscrew out, though, she tensed, and flashed the mirror again.

A scream rang out, then a shot.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Remy thought he was going to piss himself, watching the corkscrew come closer and closer. He tensed all over, all of his vision centered on that tiny metal tip. He blinked, and his lashes brushed the metal.

At that second, a scream shivered down the alleyway. For a split second only, Trask's head snapped up. The gunman's attention wavered, and he reflexively pulled the trigger.

The Prince of Thieves only needed a split second; desperately he rolled away from the deadly pair, and was peripherally aware of two forms rushing past him, one blonde, the other auburn. He spared a glance for them as two of the Guilds' bodyguards and Mercy came running down the alleyway. Donna took out the gunman in one easy movement and was drawing a bead on _his _head with the gun, only to curse in frustration when it jammed. She viciously kicked him in the head instead, and if he wasn't dead, when he woke up he sure would wish he were. Rose had Trask backing slowly away from her, his Swiss Army knife in one hand, the pale fingers of the other hand reaching for his skin inexorably.

"Remy," Mercy said urgently, bringing his attention to her as he painfully climbed to his feet. "We need a new exit; de cops are about to come pouring down this alleyway any minute."

"Glad to 'blige, _chere,_" Remy said, and proceeded to charge the tall wooden fence that bound the end of the alleyway. "Y' might wanna duck." He advised her and the rest dryly, and everyone except Trask hit the deck, barely in time. Trask was struck squarely in the head by a flying piece of fence, and he dropped like a felled tree to the ground. Rose wasted no time in slapping her bare hand against his face for a few seconds, her face tense with concentration. She shuddered once, then stood, moving swiftly toward the 'doorway' with the others as concerned pedestrians cautiously entered at the opposite end of the long alley. She glared at his unconscious form, then glanced at 'Donna, asking mutely. The blonde shook her head regretfully.

"Don' have my tools wit' me, an' dose ot'ers are too close, anyway," she said, jerking her head at the figures, some of whom had seen them and were pointing in their direction. "We'll have to leave your Thieves here, Remy," she added. "De cop's would be suspicious if _everyone_ but dese two vanishes." Remy frowned, but nodded, prodded by Joe as indecipherable shouts echoed from the walls. The onlookers were rapidly approaching. The group shoved through the hole in the fence quickly, hoping no-one had gotten a good look at their faces.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

In New York, Charles Xavier hurried (as much as he was able) to his office, mentally calling the team to him as he did so. Such was the urgency in his mind-voice that several of them arrived before them. They peppered him with questions; once all were assembled, he cut them off with a jerk of his hand. "I've seen him," he said into the sudden quiet. "The mutant who was being kept with Rogue at the lab; I saw him while using Cerebro, just now. He's in Chicago. I think, however, he could use some help. I received an impression of danger, pain, and some sort of explosion—"

"I'll go get the Blackbird ready," Logan cut in. "Chicago's only twenty-five minutes away at top speed. Don't even ask, Chuck. If it means we can find out what happened to Rogue in that maniac's lab, we're going."

As he vanished out the door, the others nodded their agreement. "Very well," Xavier said. "We leave in ten minutes."

There hadn't been such complete focused pandemonium about a mission in months; Scott took a second to murmur to Jean, "We've _got_ to learn something, Jeannie. We can't find this guy, who was with her in her last days, and learn _nothing._ I feel like—like Rogue's not finished yet, or maybe the story of her life isn't finished…"

"I know," Jean interrupted him. "But remember what Dr. Banks has been telling us all in therapy. No matter how much we learn about what happened to her, none of it will bring her back. You need to keep reminding yourself that she's gone, and no matter what we learn, or don't learn, nothing will change that. Okay?"

He smiled at her, sighed, and gave her a hug. "Yeah. Thanks for reminding me." His face was gentle as he brushed his lips against her forehead. "You help me keep things in perspective. C'mon, we don't want to be left behind."

Two minutes later, the denizens of Bayside glanced overhead as a sonic boom cracked the air.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Once on the other side of the fence, they all glanced at Remy, who was looking strained. Rose said, "Remy, I know half of us aren't Thieves, but we need to get to one of the Guild's bolt-holes or safe houses or whateveryou-call-'ems… The police will be surrounding the area any minute, and with your face looking like it does, we can't afford to be stopped."

Remy nodded once, sharply, thought a moment, then said shortly, his lips tight with pain, "It's dis way. Quick."

They dodged through more alleyways, following him, though Rose did her best to stay immediately beside him. She wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him, and reassure herself that he was truly _not_ in Trask's hands, and this wasn't all some hallucination. _I wonder if Trask broke a bone in his face,_ she thought worriedly. _He's in a lot more pain than some bruises would account for. Maybe a broken rib..?_ They paused before yet another alleyway's mouth, this one leading to what looked like townhouses. "It's number eight," Remy said, gesturing ahead of them at one of the two-story buildings. "Soon's we make de porch, we're safe. Let's go." He sounded utterly exhausted, and staggered a bit shoving off of the wall he'd been leaning against.

As soon as they made it into the house, and the door safely locked behind them, the others collapsed on various pieces of furniture.

Rose caught his sleeve roughly, turning his greyishly pale face to her as she steered him towards a couch. "Hey," she said softly, knowing he wouldn't want the others to hear what she was going to ask him. "Do we need to get you to an emergency room? I think he must've broken some bones or something; even I can tell you're in a lot of pain."

"You would," he said absently. Then, "Can't trust de 'mergency rooms 'round here if _they're_ in town," he replied, and reeled unsteadily again. She put her hands up to his tall shoulders to catch and steady him, and was startled when her left hand came away wet.

"Remy," she gasped in horror, pulling his duster away from his body. Blood stained his once-nice shirt from a clean, round bullet hole just underneath his collarbone.

He smiled gracelessly at her expression. "Wasn't anyt'ing y' could've done 'bout it, _chere_, and wasn't anyt'in' could be done 'til we were safe. So, let's g—" Was as far as he got 'til his eyes rolled into the back of his head and she was left catching 6-foot-plus of bleeding Cajun, easing him to the couch while shouting for the others.

They'd leapt to their feet at her sudden yell. Joe took a look at the wound and sat back, grim-faced. "It's not a bad wound, but it needs stitches." He said. "I'll go for a doctor on the Guild's payroll; you three stay here and make sure he doesn't move around too much."

'Donna emerged from the kitchen, holding a first-aid kit. "Well, we can at least get him bandaged up some while you're gone." Joe nodded his agreement, grabbed his cell phone, and vanished out the door. 'Donna turned to Rose. "Ever packed a gunshot wound before?" She asked her. She shook her head. "Well, you're 'bout t' learn. Fo' now, hold Remy upright and still. He'll probably wake up some when we clean it. Mercy, you've done dis befo'. You can help. Ed, watch the door—we don't need nosy neighbors wonderin' who's yellin' in dis here 'empty' house."

"Right." Ed nodded—he seemed to be, Rose noticed, a man of few words—and took up a post beside the door.

"Okay." 'Donna looked down at Remy. Rose looked at her, perfectly content to follow her obviously-experienced orders. "Okay," she said again. "First t'ings first. Rose, you keep his arms down and still; any shoulder movement befo' he gets stitches in, an' he'll just bleed worse."

Rose looked at the man lolling unconscious against her shoulder, and considered. A memory surfaced. _Ah. The immobilization technique Logan taught us… That should work, sorta, if I change it like…_ She carefully shifted and shrugged them both around 'til he was leaning more fully against her, and she could get her arms around him. She locked her arms together around his waist, pinning his arms beneath hers. Mercy eyed her setup, and nodded her approval. "Dat should work. Here, sit up a little straighter, we'll need to get at that shoulder better."

As the two girls moved Remy, he stirred, and cursed, frowning. "Damnit. Why can't I… oh, hello, _chere._" He smiled, his eyes inches from Rose's. She reflexively smiled back. "Well. 'f I'd known all it'd take fo' you to wrap yo' arms 'round me was gettin' shot, I'd've pissed Julien or someone off weeks ago." 'Donna returned, gave him a darkly amused look, and with no warning tore his shirt at the shoulder, the fabric pulling at his skin as it stuck to the dried blood. He hissed. "Ow. Damn, Bella, dat _hurt_."

"Yeah, well, dis will, too." She replied, as she poured antiseptic over his shoulder. He stiffened in pain, and Rose tightened her grip reflexively. He shuddered slightly, and settled back against her.

"Don't relax yet," Mercy advised him. "This is going to hurt, too." She pressed a heated wet cloth against the wound, and Rose heard him suck in his breath and hold it against the pain. When he turned his face to her again, his eyes were more glassy than before.

"Why you _femmes_ bein' so mean to ol' Remy?" He asked plaintively. "What've I done to you?"

"It's not what you've done to us," 'Donna replied, as Mercy lifted the pad, folded it, and pressed again. "It's what you've been doin' to our friend, there, who just saved yo' undeservin' ass."

"What? What've I been doin'?"

"You've been making her miserable, and didn't even have the guts to stick around and _watch_ her be miserable," Mercy said acerbically. "Leaving her to a fool like Julien, really, Remy. No offense, 'Donna."  
"Don't apologize. He _is_ a fool. I've told him so. Here, move so I can pour some more cleanser."

"I've just been shot. Can't dis discussion wait 'til after Remy's not in intense pain?"

"No," both girls said immediately. 'Donna continued, "Even if you hadn't been shot, we'd have done something to put you in a similar state. Yo' can't move, an' you can't run. Work's been done for us, dis way. Saves me a bullet."

At that, Rose's eyebrows lifted. She was reassured by a wink from Mercy over Remy's head.

"Anyway," Mercy said, as she checked beneath the pad, and seemed dissatisfied with what she saw, "Now'd be a great time to talk with Rose. You're going to want something to distract you. We'll have to pack this wound full of gauze 'til the doctor gets here and stitches you up. You're not clotting as fast as I'd like."

"Damnit. This hurts!"

"It's gonna hurt worse in a minute," came the unsympathetic response from 'Donna, who was taking a lot of gauze out of the kit. "Talk t' her. Pretend we aren't even here. We won't talk about anyt'ing we hear, will we, Mercy?"

"What'd you say? I can't hear anything. I'm just packing this bullet hole."

"Ow—damnit—ow, fine, Remy'll talk, if it'll make you _femmes_ stop hurting me."

"It won't, but at least you won't be paying attention to us."

Remy sighed, and turned his head to Rose, who'd been watching the exchange with some amusement. "So, _chere._" He drawled. "Has Remy been as bas as dey say?" He flinched and grunted as 'Donna and Mercy continued to work on his shoulder, but kept his eyes trained on hers.

An unhappy look crossed her face before she could hide it, and his own expression became more concerned. _I sort of thought Belle and Mercy were joking, a little at least. I mean, I know I haven't talked with her in a while, but it hasn't been that bad… has it? I know she's attracted to Julien, I felt her emotions when she met him. What happened? _Aloud, he said lightly, "Well? How bad has it really been?"

What she said was, perhaps, the last thing he expected, and the most devastating.

"I _miss_ you, Remy." She said simply, quietly, and looked at him. "Haven't you missed me? Even a little?"

"O' course I missed you!" He exclaimed, shocked at the question. _How can she ask me that?_ "But I t'ought you were spending time wit' Julien." He couldn't help the bitterness that laced his voice. "I _know_ you're attracted to him, so don't deny it."

"So what?" Rose shot back. "He friggin' looks like a Greek statue brought to life; what girl _wouldn't_ be attracted to him? But it doesn't mean I'm _interested_ in him!"

"An' you've—y-you're not?" Remy stuttered, startled. "Den why're you spendin' so much time wit' him?"

"First, I was spending time _with Belle_, here, and Julien kept inviting himself along, or 'accidentally' showing up in the same places. Second, you weren't talking to me, and sometimes it's _nice_ to have a male friend to talk to. Third, you weren't making it clear—to _anyone_, let alone me or Julien—what exactly our relationship is, or isn't. I really can't blame Julien for having hope when I seemed to be free for him to move in." She paused, then added angrily, "And _you_ can't blame me for _losing_ hope, when I suddenly seemed to _be_ free for him to move in."

"Hope." He repeated. "_Losing_ hope… Y' mean you don't want to be wit' me, anymore? I'll understand if you don't," he hurried, seeing her expression change. "I've been a—a—" he ran out of words. Fortunately, Belle and Mercy were still a foot away, working on his shoulder.

"A colossal jerk."

"An insensitive brute."

"A complete idiot."

"A total _guy._"

He turned his head to level a glare at them. "T'ought you _femmes _weren't listening to us. Ow!"

"Didn't hear a thing."

"Nope. Nothin'. Hand me that tape."

Remy turned back to Rose. "_Chere,_ I wanted you to have a choice. I thought you weren't given any ot'er options, with all dat happened to us."

She sighed then. "Oh, Remy…" She shook her head. "Don't you realize that _if I'd wanted to_, at any time I could have just called Professor X and returned to the X-men? Or gone back to Irene, in Mississippi. I _had_ choices, and I made them the way I wanted to make them.

"And 'all that happened to us' is _exactly_ the point. You're literally the only person who can fully, completely understand the events that shaped me becoming who I am now, and who I'm going to be in the future. You've been there too." She paused, and brushed one of her hands over his as he stiffened in sudden pain; Mercy and 'Donna were still working.

She continued, "And then there's this… bond. We're connected, you and I, by what, I don't know. Our powers… our experiences… something else altogether that would've linked us even if we'd met in a grocery store somewhere…" She shrugged. "I don't know _what _it is, but I know it's there. And you can't tell me you don't feel it, too; it helped me find you today, and I know the exact second you realized I was nearby, because I felt you sense me."

"I'm not denying it. I absolutely know what you're talking about." He admitted, the beginnings of a surprised joy spreading through him. "But I t'ought using it to 'prove' we should be together would, again, leave you wit' no choice, or feelin' like you _had_ to be wit' me, or…"

She gave him an exasperated look. "Remy. Be quiet. I know you heard what I just said."

"But—"

She leaned down to him, and kissed him.

When she lifted her head a moment later, his eyes were still glassy with pain but he was smiling. "Does dis mean—"

She made a sound of exasperation. "Remy. Okay. Let me spell this out for you. This, right now, is me, _choosing _you, as my… boyfriend, or significant other, or however you want to put it. Okay? Are you noticing this happening? 'Cos I'm not saying this again."

He laughed then, even though it hurt his shoulder, and stretched his neck up as far as he could (she still held his arms down) to kiss her back, earnestly. Vaguely he wished she'd let go of his arms so he could get them around her—and never let go. It crossed his mind, hazily, that he meant it deeply, in every way.

"So," she said a moment later, "I guess you _did_ miss me."

His expression turned serious. "I missed you like I'd miss de sun if it went out, _chere_. I wanted to tell you how I felt every time I saw you, but I t'ought it'd put pressure on you to agree, even if you didn't. So I just… couldn't see you."

She fixed him with a severe look. "Remy LeBeau, get this straight right now: I've got my own mind. It happens to agree with yours a lot of the time, which sometimes is sorta scary, but rest assured, if I don't agree with you on something, I will let you know. If I'm feeling pressured into something, I'll let you know."

"Well," he said. "Dis last month or so has been miserable wit'out you. I won't do _that_ again."

The door opened suddenly, and they all jumped, but relaxed when they realized it was Joe coming back. "Thank God," Joe said, overhearing this last as he entered, a man in a suit in tow. "You've been miserable to be around, Remy. You yelled at him, Rose?" She nodded. The bodyguard smiled. "Good. I _knew_ I liked you. Has _le diable's_ shoulder quit bleeding yet? Here's the doctor, to put some stitches in…"

A while later, the doctor sat back, satisfied, rolling his sleeves down over the discreet Guild tattoo in the crook of his arm. "Well, that'll hold you 'til you get back to N'Orleans, at least," he said to Remy, and turned to the waiting Mercy, Belle, and bodyguards. "I'd recommend you make that trip quickly, though," he added. "I don't have the supplies handy here to do a permanent job on that shoulder, and if he wants to have full range of motion in the joint, it'll take some careful work to keep the scar tissue supple. I'm telling all of _you_ this because I've worked on our prince there before, and he doesn't listen when his doctors tell him things. And he should do some careful exercising, too. –What's so funny?" He interrupted himself, as Mercy suddenly hid a laugh behind her hand.

"Does that count as 'careful exercising'?" She asked. "I don't think he's moving the arm… _too_ much."

The doctor glanced over his shoulder and turned beet-red, whether with annoyance or embarrassment, none of them could say: As soon as the doctor had turned away, Remy had pulled Rose around to sit beside him, wrapped his arms around her slim waist, and was currently occupied by exploring her lips with his. He tried to lift his arms to her shoulders, but stopped halfway, a flicker of pain crossing his face. When he persisted, however, she gripped his injured arm, forced it down and held it still, pulled back long enough to order, "_Behave_, or I'll stop kissing you," and moved back into the kiss.

The doctor turned back to the foursome, and said drolly, "Oh. Never mind what I was saying about Remy not listening. I'll just tell _her_ what I want him to do. Obviously, she knows how to keep him in line. Which, knowing Remy, is amazing. Where did he find her?"

A soft expression crossed Mercy's face as she glanced back at the pair. "I think," she said thoughtfully, "they found each other, finally." She shook herself to attention, smiled, and shook his hand. "Thank you for your time, Doctor," and she showed him to the door, glancing cautiously around the street, frowning slightly, before closing the door behind him.

She looked at the others. "So, what now?"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Are you, like, _sure_ this is the place, Professor?" Kitty asked doubtfully, as the team crept up on a nondescript, small-town like street wedged amongst the city's skyscrapers. "I mean, it looks like people have been living in these houses for generations; how would that mutant guy have been—captured—and then causing riots in Ohio, if he comes from some place like this?"

"'Stranger things,' Kitty." The professor replied evenly. "In any event, no, I am not certain that this is the specific place where the mutant is; however, he _is_ close by, so a search of the neighborhood should prove illuminating. Let's split up and ask the neighbors if they've seen someone matching his description—a tall young man, early twenties, brown or red-brown hair, and, most particularly, red-on-black eyes, though he may be wearing contacts to hide them."

"You'll be going _in pairs,_ and any sign of trouble, you call the rest of us, you hear?" Wolverine added. The others nodded, paired off as ordered, and split up to start knocking on doors. Kurt, however, stopped halfway across the street, at the top of a steep hill, staring down opposite the direction they were heading. Kitty tugged at his arm. "Like, come on, Kurt!"

"Uh… Kitty?" he said slowly, not moving. "Do you see vhat I see?"  
"What—oh. Oh!" She stopped too, then turned to him. "Uhm. Who _are _those guys?"

A paramilitary group was slowly advancing on a house about ten buildings down the street. It was abundantly clear that each of the men was armed, and as the pair watched, stunned, one pulled from his belt the unmistakable shape of a grenade. Every man had on surplus-store fatigues, helmets, and gas masks. Kurt hit his communicator. "Professor? I think this mutant ve're looking for is going to need our help—soon!"

Quickly he explained what they'd seen, and Wolverine's snarl came back. "Stay put. We're on our way. _Don't do anything_ 'til we get there"

"Like, no problem, Mr. Logan," Kitty replied shakily, as she and Kurt scuttled to the dubious cover of some bushes.

They peered through the azaleas and daffodils at the scene unfolding below. The camo'd men were slowly circling the house, a few of them crowding down the narrow passageways between the houses. One of them in front of the house sent hand signals to these unseen troops, and a moment later, a series of loud bangs echoed along the otherwise quiet street. Enormous clouds of smoke began to roil around the house, swiftly obscuring it from view.

"Smoke grenades," Wolverine snarled suddenly from above them; both teens jumped at his silent arrival. "Well, that'll make _some_ things easier. Let's go rescue whoever's in that house."

The team assembled and began sprinting down the hill to where the men were slowly advancing on the house. One of the men yelled through a bullhorn, "Mutants! Come out peaceably or we'll demolish the house with your traitor human friends in it! You have two minutes!"

Cyclops began issuing orders as they hurried down the hill. "Shadowcat, you run through and short out any communications devices they have. Nightcrawler, see if you can't surprise some of them into releasing their guns. Spyke, you follow behind him and if they _do_ drop their weapons, or otherwise leave them vulnerable, spike 'em if you can. Jean, Logan, and I will be on offensive. I'll break away when I get a chance and evacuate the house. Okay, team?" He received nods all around.

The same man raised the bullhorn again and shouted, "One minute left for you to come out, mutants!"  
"How about the mutants already out here?" Scott shouted at him as they drew near, ready to fire his optic blasts. "Want to give us a try?"

With that, the battle was on, as the men turned, startled, to face the newcomers. With swift hand signals, the leader directed five of his men to attack the X-men, while the others continued their assault on the house. The sharp sound of a gunshot was audible over the din; a second later, a man approaching the front porch dropped to the ground, clutching his gory knee.

_They've got humans in there!_ Scott realized, and absently blasted one of the men out of his way as he sprinted through the billowing smoke to the side of the house. He careened around the corner to see two men—_not_ the attackers—standing outside an open window. One was standing guard, gun drawn and smoking, the other was helping a young man in a trench coat climb out of the window. The young man moved stiffly, and kept his head ducked so low he nearly lost the sunglasses he was wearing. A pair of feminine hands eased his way out the window; as soon as he was safely on the ground, the owner of the hands began to climb out as well. "Keep 'em busy, there, 'Donna!" he heard her shout to someone inside the house. Odd; her voice sounded… familiar, somehow…

One of what were too-obviously bodyguards noticed him and approached cautiously. Scott began talking before he could. "Hey, we're on your side, we're fighting these maniacs too, out front. I think we can help you get out of here."

"Why?"

"We're mutants," Scott admitted readily. "I know at least one person with you is, too. And it doesn't seem like those guys are too friendly. We help people who have other people after them. It's sorta…what we do."

The other man eyed him askance a moment, then said. "Wait here. Move, and I'll shoot you."

Scott glanced at the gun firmly held in the man's hand. At this range, even his optic blasts probably wouldn't be fast enough. "Not a problem," he agreed. "Where were you trying to go? I can try to clear a way."

"De only place to go is out the front of the alleyway," the young man in the trenchcoat called. "Dere's too many of dem in—" he broke off abruptly as he realized he wasn't answering his bodyguard, and got a look at Scott.

The bodyguard reached the trenchcoated man then, and leaned over to mutter in his ear. The other guard stood close by. Scott could feel the young man's gaze even through the dark sunglasses he wore. He muttered something back to the bodyguard, who shrugged and returned to Scott, a trifle less menacingly.

As he returned, the young man hissed something through the window, gripping the feminine calf stretching through the small frame. The owner of the calf froze for a moment, and retreated back into the building. Then the bodyguard reached Scott, and stood directly in his line of sight, cutting off his view of the window, whether on purpose or not, he couldn't tell. It was irritating… the voice he'd heard was somehow resonating with him…

Meanwhile, the other guard was rummaging through a satchel at his feet, standing upright with a grunt of satisfaction. "Found 'em," he said to the one in the trench, and tossed two spheres to him. He caught them deftly, and came over to where Scott and the bodyguard searched the chaos outside the alleyway for a path out.

"Joe here tells me you've offered t' help us get out," he said without preamble, a rich Cajun accent flavoring the words. "Let me tell you dis, _homme:_ you do _anyt'ing_ to harm any one of us, an' you won' live to regret it long." Somehow Scott believed it wasn't an idle threat. Still…

Scott stiffened indignantly. "Don't you know who we _are_? We're the X-Men. We _help_ other mutants, like you." He added boldly, thinking the other didn't know Scott realized he was a mutant.

"We aren't all mutants," the other returned, glancing over his shoulder: a sweet-faced brunette young woman was now outside the window, incongruously holding a solid-looking handgun, and looking like she knew—and couldn't wait—to use it. Yet another person was emerging from the window; gunshots went off from inside, and they heard someone yell in pain from the front yard. "You all right, Rose?" the brunette yelled, pronouncing the name oddly.

Distantly they heard, "Fine, but if yo' come up wit' a solution to our—problem—Ah'd love t' hear it!" Another Cajun, though her accent was a bit different from that of the man speaking to him. Something in the timbre of her voice, though, was bothering Scott, and he couldn't wait to lay eyes on her.

"I'm on it,_ ma cherie_," the man in front of him yelled to the as-yet-unseen woman inside. Behind them, another woman, this one a vibrant blonde, was clambering from the window, somehow doing so without dropping either of the guns she held.

"Look, it doesn't matter if you aren't all mutants," Scott said quickly. "We'd help you anyway. But we want to talk to _you_ in particular."

"Why?"  
"We think you knew one of our teammates—" he cut off as a barrage of gunfire echoed from the front of the house, and the one he was speaking to visibly paled.

"We don' have much time," he said to Scott. "But if de price for yo' help is going wit' all of your—teammates— to be questioned, we won't be needin' yo' help. We've had enough of being trapped," he said bitterly.

"No, no." Scott hastened to assure him, kicking himself for scaring off the other mutant. "We just would _like_ to talk to you, after we all get away. But let's get away first."

The other's eyes flickered, then he nodded, and pressed one of the spherical objects into Scott's hand. "Smoke grenade," he told him. "I figure if we can get enough smoke cover, we can just run out. Trask's men won't shoot into smoke at targets dey can't see."

"So what can I do?"

"You can run out in front of dem an' set dis off to give us the cover we need. Dey don't know _you _on sight." The young man said dryly. "An' from what I saw, you can get us a path out."

Scott nodded his acceptance; as matters stood, it was the best plan. Before ducking out of the alleyway, he grabbed the young man's arm. "Please, let us talk to you after we get away."

His hand was shrugged off. "I'm not makin' any promises. I've got people to take care of."

"So do I," Scott replied, sorrow still tingeing his voice at the inevitable memory of the one he hadn't. "But we'll talk about that later," he said confidently. He glanced back along the alleyway again: it looked like the one who'd been shooting from inside was finally coming out. "And… I want to meet her, too. She's reminding me of—_someone_, but I don't know who." He said, nodding in the window's direction.

The man muttered something in another language—a curse, Scott thought—and gestured impatiently to the ongoing fight. "You going to go set our cover up, or should I?"

"I'm gone." Scott ducked back into the fray, grenade clenched in one hand, the other ready at his visor control. It was unlikely the whole group of six could escape the entire X-men team, especially when only one of the six was a mutant. They'd have to be vanishing artists to get away, the leader's non-promise notwithstanding. He glanced back at the people they were helping, hoping to get a glimpse at least of the one who sounded familiar, but the other mutant had set off a smoke grenade practically at his feet, obscuring everything. Scott took that as his signal, and set his own off, running back through the smoke to help protect the humans as they ran out into the firefight.

Curses sounded in the sudden fog as thick white smoke billowed from the grenades. Scott blundered his way toward the alley entrance and nearly leapt out of his skin when the two bodyguards suddenly thundered close by, bringing the blonde and brunette women with them. "Thanks," he heard, faintly, from the brunette, he thought, and they vanished behind a swirl.

He continued on, searching for the leader and the third girl, as they were really the ones he didn't want to lose track of, anyway. They barreled him down as they ran by, not seeing him in the smoke, and the worst that could possibly happen to Scott in a fight (albeit one with a smoke-induced ceasefire), happened. His visor came off when he struck the ground; he'd been turning his head to get a glance at the girl instead of protecting his head as he usually would be during a fall. A minor moment of panic enveloped him as he felt around—and it wasn't there. And they'd run by—

He almost opened his eyes and incinerated her when she tapped his ankle. Tapped it—with the visor! "Here. T'anks for de help." He reached out, fumbling in haste, to get it on, to get a look at her, but she'd handed it to him upside-down and it took a precious half-second to realize that. It was long enough.

"Come on, _cherie." _ He heard, and clicked the visor into place in time to see the smoke swirling behind them as they vanished.

Damnit. They _were_ vanishing artists.

Wolverine was _not_ going to like this.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	26. “…those caves of ice!”

Well, here's another offering… now that I have a computer again. :) Yaaaay, technology. However, it's a new computer, so I still have no story notes or outlines or _anything,_ but I'm working on rebuilding that. Let me know what you think! More to come soon. Sla'n, --Alara

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Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 26: "…those caves of ice!"

After the unsuccessful attempt at contact in Chicago, the team spent a couple of days searching the area for any clues as to the elusive mutant's whereabouts. They were, as before, unsuccessful. The day after, they arrived back at the mansion, and Scott, Jean, Wolverine, and Xavier met in Xavier's office. Upset faces circled the desk as it became clear that their mission—talking to Rogue's fellow captive—had failed.

"The accent was very distinctive," Scott was saying. "Definitely a southern accent. I'm pretty sure it was Cajun."

"How sure?" Wolverine leaned forward intently.

"Just—pretty sure. Well—_almost_ positive." Scott replied, frustration lining his voice. "If only I'd grabbed hold of that mutant... He was _right there..._"

"Kid, don't beat yourself up too much. You were trying to make sure you weren't going to be shot."

"Right. Right." Scott shook himself, and sat up a bit straighter. "Well, I'm pretty positive _he_ was Cajun. So was the blonde. One of the human guys was from England, I think. That girl I never saw, though... something about her voice made me think of—" his breath abruptly cut off, and he swallowed heavily.

Jean gave his hand a squeeze. "Just tell them, Scott."

"They'll think I'm obsessed, or crazy, or—"

"What is it, Cyclops?" Wolverine scowled, annoyed at the hemming and hawing.

Xavier gave him a quelling look and leaned on his desk, hands loosely clasped on the table in front of him. "Scott, any information you have to give us could help us track down where he went after escaping the firefight. Just tell us. We trust your judgment."

"It sounded—it sounded—" his voice cut off again, and he exhaled heavily, staring at the carpet. "I realized late last night that it was bothering me because it sounded kinda like R—Rogue." He got the name out with difficulty.

Wolverine leaned back in his chair, sighing, his face softening. "That _would _mess you up. Sorry, kid."

"But it _wasn't_ Rogue," the younger man burst out, shoving himself out of the chair, striding across the room to stare out the window. "It _couldn't_ be. _She's gone._ I _know _that. It wasn't her voice, exactly, just—sorta sounded like it. Like she'd heard Rogue somewhere or maybe came from her hometown, or something. I'm not imagining this!"

Professor X leaned forward. "Scott, are you saying that you think this girl _knew_ Rogue? Spoke to her—or, at least, heard her speak? Is it possible she was another prisoner?"

The team leader couldn't speak, his jaw was clenched so tightly. He nodded curtly in response to the question, not lifting his upset stare from the tree line.

A little silence fell, as the other three exchanged looks behind his back.

"All right, Scott," Professor X said at last. "We knew we had to find the young man. It seems, now, that we must find the girl, as well.""It makes sense," Logan put in. "Her scent has qualities like his—it has hints of Rogue, if you're looking for them. And I am," he added unnecessarily. "I think they must be together a lot—they were in Pittsburgh together, they were just in Chicago together; I'd even be willing to bet she was involved in the New Years' Riots somehow. So." He looked at Professor X. "The question now is, can we find him again?"

The Professor's expression firmed. "The question now is not _can_ we find him, Logan, but when. I know what his mutant signature looks like; I'll go to Cerebro and start looking in areas whose populations have Cajun accents right now." He maneuvered his wheelchair toward the door, pausing by Scott, who still stared tensely out the window. "We _will_ find him, Scott, and we _will_ get our answers."

Scott looked away from the window to meet Xavier's steady gaze. "I know, Professor. Just—let me be part of the team to find him?" The professor nodded, and began to move toward the door when Scott spoke again.

"Professor X? Thanks." A faint smile touched his face. "Thank you, for—"

The professor lifted a hand to silence him. "I know, Scott. I know."

As he wheeled away, the three left behind could only wait and hope that the Professor worked his usual brilliant magic, and find the mysterious mutant.

Their hope, for a change, was rewarded: three hours later, the Blackbird soared toward the swamps and stews of Louisiana, carrying Logan and Scott to what they fervently hoped were answers, to finally lay the specter of Rogue's death to rest.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

During the late night train ride back to New Orleans, the exhausted Remy fell asleep leaning against Roisin, her hand loosely clasped in his. 'Donna and Ed sat together and talked quietly, while Joe kept a watchful eye on the rest of the car as he played gin with Mercy. Roisin spent her time gently soothing Remy's frequent splashes of nightmare, and cautiously began to review the information she'd ripped from Trask's mind.

As though the situation hadn't been awful enough already, as she skimmed over the information gleaned from the sadist's mind, she realized with some horror that Trask's pursuit had initially begun as a personal vendetta to retrieve her—he saw her as something like a stolen piece of laboratory equipment which had cost him several years' worth of research, reconnaissance, and several ten thousand dollars' worth of resources and funding to successfully kidnap her. In his memories, her kidnapping was referred to as her 'acquisition.' What had initially begun as a retrieval operation, however, had escalated into an absolute necessity that Trask get her back and he complete his mutant-eradication scheme. His anti-mutant backers, including groups like Humans First, were threatening to remove their funding because of the loss of the main laboratory and the lack of concrete results from Trask's experiments. Apparently, his patrons didn't realize he'd lost the linchpin of his plan.

She was also disheartened to find that, despite Trask keeping her escape relatively quiet, he hadn't been lying when he'd said he could find her anywhere in the United States outside of New Orleans metro area. Roisin suspected the Source had quite a bit to do with her dropping off the radar when in New Orleans. But if they were going to live their lives, they couldn't be confined to one small area less than two hundred miles square—and half of that was swamp and bayou. _Besides,_ Roisin thought, _I really hate the idea of being trapped by Trask even in that way. But what can we do? _

The question kept her awake 'til they arrived back at the Guild Seat, where she saw Remy safely off to bed, and then returned to the warm kitchen to talk with Henri and Jean-Luc. She swiftly explained what had happened the previous day, from her uncanny location of Remy through their close encounter with the X-men.

Jean-Luc's cunning eyes studied her. "What's worrying you, Roisin Dubh?"

She frowned at the table, eyes tracing the wood grain. "It's Trask. I reviewed most of the information I took from his head. For once, he wasn't lying—he was right. He really _can_ find us anywhere in the US outside of New Orleans. But much as I love it here—and I do—I really, really hate the idea that we're the walking dead if we leave for any reason. It's like being under house arrest for the crime of existing!"

Jean-Luc and Henri exchanged a look, and Henri murmured, "Y'd better tell her, _Pere._"

Jean-Luc sighed heavily. "Roisin, _Tante_ told me this a few days ago, and I was hoping things would change and it wouldn't be necessary. Apparently, however, I was wrong. I should know better than to second-guess anything Mattie tells me. I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

Her head jerked back as though he'd hit her across the face. She had, of course, been thinking about the X-men, and her last few months with them. She'd spent part of the train ride comparing her life _then_ to the wonderful and substantively better _now_, so his words came as a shock. "W-what? I thought—" she began to breathe jerkily, panic closing in. _It was just like before—in Caldecott, in __New York—_"I thought you appreciated my abilities, that you… that you _wanted_ me. What did I do?" she asked, bewildered. "Is it that I took information from Trask's mind without bothering to be careful, or that I didn't manage to kill him, or—"

Jean-Luc stared at her in surprise and confusion for a second as she spoke. His expression changed to one of pity and horror, though, when he realized what she was saying. _What'd those New York people do to this sweet girl? _"No, no no no, Roisin! Dat's not it at all! _No._ We love you, and de Guild loves you, and we don't _want_ you to go anywhere, but dat batard Trask's taken the decision out of our hands. When I said '_you'll_ have to leave,' I meant 'you' as in 'you and Remy'. I t'ought it was a foregone conclusion dat you travel together, work jobs together… I'm so sorry, Roisin. I didn't realize I wasn't being plain. You _are_ a T'ief, one of de _famille;_ we treasure your unique talents. _No._ We'd hate to lose you."

"Besides," Henri put in, "it's not to get you out of the way—or not _just_ to get you out of the way. De Guilds rotate a review of de major Guildhalls every t'ree years, an' it's de T'ieves' turn. We want to send you and Remy. And while you're gone—for about ten or twelve months—we can work on eradicating Trask here. He isn't de only one wit' government and military contacts." He added grimly. "Please, just think about it?"

Roisin nodded, and wandered to her room where she sank onto her bed, brooding. They wanted her—but for her safely—and Remy's—they needed to leave this place she was finally thinking of as 'home.' Just the thought of leaving all the familiar faces, the daily routine of training and planning and _living_—thinking about leaving made her throat tighten. _I really love this place,_ she realized. _I don't want to leave._

She considered that thought. She didn't _want_ to leave, but did she want to subject the rest of the New Orleans Guild to being endangered by Trask? Of course not. And it wasn't as though it was a terribly _long_ absence… ten or twelve months was barely more than a year's worth of school. _Well,_ she thought, _I'll wait 'til Remy wakes up and talk to him about it. After all, it's his life being disrupted, too._

As though in response to her thought, a sudden burst of fear came echoing through the connection she shared with Remy. Before conscious thought caught up with her, she was already hurrying through the halls to his room.

When she arrived, as she suspected, he was in the grip of another nightmare—of their time with Trask, no doubt. She sat beside his tossing form and brushed her hand along his face gently. "Remy, shh," she soothed him. He shuddered, eyes flying open. "No!" he gasped, blindly grasping at her.

She shook him a little. "Remy, it's me. Roisin. Trask isn't here. It's _me_."

"Roisin?" he whispered hoarsely. "Oh God—that place—that _place—"_

"I know. We're not there anymore. Shh."

They sat in quiet for a while, as Remy's tears dried and the shudders worked their way out. She smoothed tangled hair away from his face. "Better?"

He nodded, and muttered, "Y're too good f' me, _chere._"

"I am exactly as good for you as you are for me, so hush." She returned tartly.

He chuckled weakly. "Can't argue wit' dat."

"No, so don't try."

After another while, as they sat in the dark room, he said quietly, "C_here?_ Can I ask you somet'ing?"

"You can ask me anything."

"Promise me first you won't think worse o' me?"

"I accepted your being a thief without thinking the worse of you; I doubt anything you could _ask_ could make me do so," she returned. "What is it?"

"What would you say," he said slowly, "if I told you dat when you were sneaking down dat alleyway, puttin' y'self in danger for my sake… when I could _feel_ you were near… what would you say if I told you dat most all my fear was for me? My damn eyes? I barely even thought about the danger _you_ were in, an' I feel horrible about dat."

"I would say that that's completely understandable, and… and I know exactly how you feel." She confessed. "As soon as we started to make our way to the way-point house, I just wanted to run, and to hell with the rest of you," she confessed. "I was like a rabbit that hears the dogs coming—I just wanted to run and run so he could never find me."

"But you _didn't_ run, you—"

"The _only_ reason I didn't run was that I had no idea where we were going or where else in Chicago would be safe. And I never even thought about the fact that the gun went off and someone could've been hurt, or anything. I just wanted out of there. So I don't think you should feel horrible about feeling a perfectly understandable, natural terror. Because if _you_ feel horrible, then _I_ have to feel horrible about it, and I've got enough to think about right now."

He chuckled a little at that. After a moment, he asked, "What else is on your mind?"

"Well," she said. "Your father and brother have a suggestion for us…" She outlined the problem, and the Guild's solution, and they discussed it for several hours, weighing pros and cons and trying to think of alternate solutions. Eventually, they talked themselves to sleep, and the next morning found them curled together, Remy still holding Roisin's hand.

The next morning, Tante looked upset as she dished out breakfast. Jean-Luc was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. He looked up when the pair stopped in front of him.

"We're going," Remy said briefly, and Jean-Luc nodded. "When do we leave?"

"If I can arrange it," his father replied, "early tomorrow morning."

Roisin and Remy exchanged startled looks. Before they could say anything, there was a gasp from the stove, and Tante came over. "So soon? We won't hardly even get d' chance t' say good-bye," she said, apparently on the verge of tears, a state Roisin had never seen her in.

"_Tante,_ it won't be forever—it might not even be a year," she said anxiously. "We're going to miss everyone so much—believe me, if we _had_ a realistic choice, we'd stay. _Please_ don't cry."

"Aw, don't pay any mind to dis here ole lady," _Tante_ answered thickly. "I just—I don't want to lose you, that's all."

"Lose me?" Roisin somehow found a laugh. "Y'all won't lose me unless you chase me away, don't worry." She looked around the sunlit kitchen, and sighed, suddenly wanting to wander the Guild Seat, re-memorize this unusual home of hers. "I'm not really hungry. I'm going to go walk through the garden. I'll see you later." She walked to the back door quickly, not wanting anyone to see the beginning of tears: _We're_ _leaving tomorrow! That's so soon! _

The two men seated at the table nodded their understanding. As soon as the door shut behind her, _Tante_ wagged a finger in Remy's face, her expression fierce. "You need to keep her, however you can. Dere's no one on dis earth better fo' you. You listen to your _Tante_, now. I'm—I'm going to go make sure dey pack t'ings right."

From behind the newspaper came Jean-Luc's voice. "She's right, you know."

"Who?"

"_Tante._ Roisin _is_ the best person for you—or perhaps it's that she makes you be the best person you can be,_"_ he mused. "In any case, I agree: _Don't let her go._ We all love her here, you know."

"I know. Uh—I have to go—do something. Something important. Ah—'bye."

Jean-Luc smiled as the back door thumped behind his son's swift passage. "You keep her, _mon fils. _Keep dat girl."

Remy followed Roisin's tracks down to the bayou's edge, where he found her perched in the sittin' tree, legs dangling. He swung himself up beside her, and they watched the waters swirl for a while.

"Can I ask you something, Roisin? It could change everyt'ing about us—as in, 'us'." He warned her.

"Yes? What is it?"

"I have a question to ask. Would you—would you—" he broke off, frustrated._ Why can't I just say it?_

"What is it?"

_Deep breath. _"Would y' go out wit' me?"

"Like on a date?" She didn't seem shocked; instead she seemed pleased. _That_ was a good sign. So was her reply: "Yes. Yes, I'd love to go on a date with you."

He nearly fell out of the tree in relief. "Great! Dat's—well—great! I'll meet you in de front hall at seven, all right?"

"Sure." She gave him a bit of a bewildered look as he leapt down, and raced to house. Rose looked after him, amused. _Well. I might have to be fleeing the country because a sadistic maniac wants to use me to eliminate all other members of my sub-species, but… I have a date! With Remy. Oh my God. _She exulted to herself. _I have a real date with Remy!_ Suddenly, her last day here for the foreseeable future was looking considerably brighter. _Huh._ _Maybe karmic law does balance out, after all. _

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

As always, reviews, comments, etc, are appreciated!


	27. Could I revive within me

Just a warning, the last section of this chapter gets a bit gruesome.

Some more action, investigation, and angst. Enjoy!

--Alara

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Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 27: "Could I revive within me"

Roisin had been enjoying the evening tremendously, from the moment Mercy casually suggested she wear a theater gown. Obviously, she knew whatever it was that Remy was planning. She'd given Mercy an excited, panicked look, Mercy had called 'Donna, and amongst the three of them, they managed a knock-out outfit involving a black, deeply-cowl necked sleeveless shell, a richly dark black silk skirt, and the Guild shawl _Tante_ had sent her for Christmas. 'Donna supplied the finishing touch by finding two jeweled hair combs with white alabaster roses. "De contrast in yo' hair, wit' dose streaks, will be amazing," the blonde Assassin assured her.

In short order, she was ready to go, and at precisely seven, Remy arrived in the foyer. He was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, which set off his auburn hair wonderfully. The equally marvelous eyes blinked at her from behind designer-frame sunglasses. "_Chere_." He said. "Wow."

A snort came from the balcony above, where 'Donna and Mercy were not eavesdropping. "Two hours of work, and all he says is, 'wow,'" Mercy scoffed. "Augh. Men."

Remy looked at Roisin, hoping _she _wasn't upset. To his relief she smiled and rolled her eyes a little where Mercy and 'Donna couldn't see her. He chuckled, turned, and indicated the door. "Well. Shall we?"

She laughed in turn and, waving at the others, ducked out the door, Remy close behind.

They walked along the street for a while. The theater they were going to wasn't far away. A few minutes down the road, Remy's cell buzzed. With an apologetic glance, he answered it. "Remy." He listened for a while, sighed, and said, "Hold on." He muted it and turned to Roisin, a torn expression on his face. "Dere's a job—a small, fast one, but important fo' de Guild—close to de theater tonight. I'd be in an' out before curtain. Henri's running it, an' askin' for my help. But Henri doesn't _need_ my help. De choice is yours—we do what you want, tonight."

She considered, and then asked, "What, exactly, does he need you for?"

"De usual. Taking out de guard while Henri goes after de alarm system. Den I go get the goods, and Henri covers our retreat."

She thought a moment more. "No."

She watched him carefully, and saw his face become carefully neutral as he replied. "Oh. All right, den." He raised the phone.

Her hand on his stopped its advance toward his face. She looked away as she said, "No, as in, I'm not letting you go alone. If you go, I go. After Trask found us—_you__—_again," she said, over his automatic protests, "I decided that I'm not letting you go into potentially dangerous situations unless I can be an equal participant. So if you're going Thieving, I am too. Besides," she added, "what else has your Guild been training me for the past few months for?"

He stared at her. "You mean you want to really be a T'ief?" he asked incredulously.

She gave him a direct look. "If it means being near you, then yes. Besides," she added slyly, "I bet _my_ method of silencing the guard is faster." She wiggled the bare fingers of one hand meaningfully.

One of his eyebrows rose. "Is de apprentice t'ief challengin' de prince o' thieves?"

"Maybe she is. Shouldn't you tell Henri about the change in plans?" She nodded at the still-muted phone.

"Tell who—oh. Right." A huge smile on his face, he nearly dropped the phone in his delight.

"Henri? Don't worry about it. We've got things under control. Go have an evening with Mercy. –Who? Oh, Roisin, of course." Roisin started laughing silently at his suddenly casual tone, despite the ear-to-ear grin. "Right. See you later." He hung up the phone, and regarded Roisin soberly. "You're sure about dis?"

"Absolutely sure. If you really do want me in your life, you have to respect me enough to let me do my share."

His smile returned. "Oh, I do. After all, you saved my Cajun ass day before yesterday."

"And don't you forget it."

"I won't."

"So. What's the heist, and what's the plan?" He grinned still wider at her eagerness, put his arm around her and spoke into her ear. Passers-by never suspected that the young man sweet-talking his girlfriend was, in fact, filling her in on the planned details of some jewelry theft, recovering some items bought illegally on the black market by the shop owner.

The job went beautifully, Remy thought twenty minutes later, as they took their seats in the theater. _Not only did the job go without a hitch, Roisin now knows __where __Mr. Jenkins' other hidey-holes for his stolen goods__ are. _The beauty of it was they could display the recovered items openly, since Jenkins could never accuse them of stealing them from him. _Besides, he'd probably think they're fakes,_ Remy thought, eyeing the collar of Marie Antoinette's rubies Roisin now wore about her neck. The rest of the set was safely tucked inside the lining of her evening bag. As luck would have it, the usher walked them right past Jenkins as they made their way to their sears.

Well, perhaps not luck: the Guilds sponsored the theater, and all the staff members were either Thieves or Assassins.

He saw her deliberately wink at the suddenly-apoplectic Jenkins as they passed by. _There's no doubt,_ he thought, swallowing a laugh. _She definitely is one of us, now._ The overture began shortly after they took their seats.

Shortly after intermission, when the show had started again, they were startled by an usher's sudden appearance. He leaned down to Remy and muttered in his ear. A puzzled look crossed his face, and he murmured to Roisin, "Excuse me. There's someone in the lobby I need to see, apparently."

"Does it have to do with our pre-theater activities?"

"It shouldn't. Be ready to leave quietly, though, just in case." For the first time that evening, he wore a slight frown.

"All right." She caught his hand. "Be safe."

A faint smile. "I will." He left.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Remy quietly passed through the heavy theater doors into the lobby, he was startled—no, shocked—to see that X-man, what was his name? Scott, standing there. Anger washed over him. _Doesn't this guy ever leave anyone alone? _

He stalked up behind Scott and wrenched him around with a firm grip on his shoulder. "_Homme,_ I've already tol' you, I'm not talking t' y'. Leave." _Maybe if I'm really rude, he'll leave and Roisin will stay safe. _Behind Scott's back, he saw one of the ushers—a Thief—open the door and let a slight form slip inside the theater: Henry Walter. He relaxed minutely. The Guild knew what was going on—whatever _that_ was.

"Listen, when you ran out a couple of days ago, you never gave us the fair chance to—"

"I'm _not_ revisiting that place, even in memory," Remy hissed out, his anger unfeigned.

Undaunted, Scott plowed on. "But we had someone there, too—another mutant—"

"We were all mutants there." Remy said flatly. "It's why we were captured." The _you_ _idiot_ was implied.

"But she was different. She had two white streaks in the front of her hair. She was from Mississippi, and liked Goth stuff. She—"

Remy cut him off. "_Homme_, from the sounds I heard, everyone else had de same problem I did after each experiment session. Dey put us t'rough so much—gave us such pain, dat no one had de energy to try an' talk to his fellow prisoners. Not that we could see each other, anyway. Only reason I knew there were others there is 'cause o' dat cart. An' you could always hear de screaming." His gaze grew distant.

"Look, we were the ones who attacked the complex. We were trying to rescue her."

A snort. "_Dat_ turned out well."

Scott gritted his teeth and tried to hold on to his temper. "We were trying to rescue her and she died in the attempt. You're the _only_ survivor we've tracked down. We just want to know what went on, what happened to her, so that we can find some peace. Please. Think. You never met Rogue?" Scott pleaded, gripping one of Remy's sleeves.

Remy jerked the fabric out of his grasp. "I don't know anyone who goes by de name of Rogue," he said. Technically, it was true; she'd gone by the name of 'Rogue' for about two whole days in the time he'd known her. Now she was _la Rose Noire,_ Roisin, Rose. By _any_ name, she was theirs. "Now—" he stopped as an usher discreetly cleared his throat behind him. He turned to the man. "Yes?"

"_Excusez-moi,_ sir, but I thought you'd want to know: the _jet roses_ for your lady friend are not in the theater."

Remy stiffened: had the others on the X-man's team got to her already? "Well, where are they, den?"

"Apparently, young Henry took them back home instead of leaving them here. Is that all right, sir?"

He relaxed. Henry had learned all the secret passageways beneath New Orleans within weeks of his arrival. "Yes, yes. My—lady friend—will no doubt be upset, but I can always locate more roses for her." He turned back to Scott, annoyance flashing across his face. "Now, as I was saying, I don't know your 'Rogue,' and I've told you already, I _do not_ wish to speak of that time. This time, respect my wishes, and leave my town. Clyde, make sure this… person… leaves the theater."

He swiftly ducked back through the doors, and the usher—who, Scott suddenly noticed, was quite burly—stepped forward. "I'm not going to have to… _convince_ you to leave, am I?"

Scott glared at him. "I could take you." Which was true, but he really didn't want to bring the fine old theater down on their heads. But the usher didn't know that.

Suddenly, three more appeared from nowhere, it seemed. "Problem, _mon ami_?" one asked Clyde.

"_Le diable blanc_ asked that we see this person safely away from here."

"Ah…" another nodded, and two of them stepped forward and simply picked Scott up by the arms, preventing him from lifting his hands to his glasses. "Den let's see him out, _oui_?"

A blindfold was thrown over his glasses, and for a second, he knew what helpless terror felt like. "Don't worry," one of the ushers told him. "We just want to make sure it takes you a while to find your way back to your hotel."

The quartet marched him along streets, alleyways, and once, Scott thought, over a bridge. When they finally stopped, they released him so abruptly that he staggered, clawing the blindfold off his face. He spun, trying to see what direction they'd gone but they'd vanished utterly as if they'd become the stone walls. He cursed. Were all of these people related to David Copperfield or something? It took him another half hour of wandering around to get his bearings and then trudge, disheartened, back to the hotel. Wolverine was waiting for him, looking disgruntled.

"Nobody in this town wants to talk," he complained. "It was obvious most people recognized the picture, but the best I got was some crazy voodoo woman telling me that I didn't _want_ to find him, because when I next saw him it would bring my 'greatest sadness' or 'biggest disappointment,' or something. And if I tried to see him beyond that, she said it would be 'the occasion of my greatest pain.' Ridiculous." He took a harder look at the disheveled Scott. "What happened to _you?_"

Scott explained his fruitless encounter. Logan was silent a moment, thinking, then blurted, "Wait—_what_ did that usher call the guy?"

"Uh, '_le diable __blanc,__'_ I think."

Logan frowned. "_What_ have we stumbled on to?" he muttered. "I'm pretty sure that's an alias for one of the more prominent members of the local crime family."

"The mob?" Scott burst out laughing, glad one of them still had some sense of humor. "C'mon, Wolverine. You're kidding."

When Logan didn't crack a smile, didn't admit that "Nah, kid, of course not, I was just messing with ya," Scott faltered. _No wonder those ushers were so huge! _"So… what does this mean about the mutant, then? Do we give up trying to talk to him?"

Logan thought, then grinned fiercely. "Nope. We go to them—the family—directly. I'm sure the local police will give us the address. We _demand_ to speak to him, and let it be known that Xavier would be _very_ interested if we disappeared suddenly. That, if we did vanish, he might even pull some Senatorial strings to investigate down here."

"Will that work?"

"I dunno, but if we're annoying enough, the guy might talk to us just to get us to go away."

"So when do we start?"

A hunter's look came across Logan's face. "Tomorrow."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A moment after Remy left for his meeting in the lobby, Rose felt shock echo down their connection. At virtually the same instant, a familiar face popped up beside her: Henry Walter, the boy they'd sent down from Ohio, now an apprentice thief.

"Roisin!" he whispered to her. "Tante sent me. She says she got a message from the Source, and you've got to come home right away."

"But Remy's—"

"We know." He interrupted insistently. "The others are taking care of him. Let's go." He tugged at her arm, and she followed, finding with little surprise that there was an escape hatch hidden in a curtained alcove.

Thirty minutes later, she emerged into the LeBeau house, which was in a state of controlled pandemonium.

Jean-Luc saw her and strode over. "Roisin. Come int' my office. Mattie needs to speak to you." Concerned now, she followed him to his office, where _Tante_ sat looking angry and upset. "Child," she said. "I t'ought dere'd be more time, but you've got to leave here. Tonight."

For a moment, she stared at the woman feeling like the earth was falling apart around her. There was a rushing sound in her ears, and her vision started to go gray. Suddenly Jean-Luc was shoving her into a chair, forcing her head down low. "Breathe, Roisin Dubh, breathe!" he ordered, and she sucked in a breath. Her vision started to clear.

"What—what'd I do? I thought... wouldn't leave 'til tomorrow at the earliest... I thought you wanted me here…" she said faintly.

"What? No, no, Roisin—dat's not what she meant. Not you alone. Dat hasn't changed; we'll get Remy here as soon as possible. _Dieu_, no. We're going to miss you like we'll miss Remy. Maybe more," he added, "since you don't blow t'ings up when you're upset." She laughed shakily at that.

"S-sorry,' she said, slowly sitting up. "I thought you were separating me and Remy... I guess I just heard the worst possible spin on the words…"

"And wit' what's happened lately, it's no wonder," Jean-Luc said kindly. "But unfortunately, _Tante_ is right. We need to get you and Remy out o' town. Even leaving it 'til tomorrow might be too late. Tonight would be ideal. Tomorrow at dawn is de latest we can afford."

"Why?"

"First, we found out fo' sure dat de Trask guy has someone trying to track you down—and he's close to town. If you're in de USA right now, he can find you. We don't want to let him. While you're safely out of reach, we're gon' find him and do whatever we have to, to make sure he's not a threat—to you or anyone else."

She blinked, but accepted that calmly, figuring hysterics weren't going to help. "You said that was the 'first' reason we have to leave. What's the other?"

"Dere's been some people knocking on doors asking about Remy, claim to want to know about your time in Trask's hands. Here." He took some papers out of his pocket. "We have some pictures. Are they more o' Trask's men?"

She steeled herself to see those hated faces, and was shocked instead to see, of all people, Logan and Scott in the photographs, looking strange after such a long time away from them. The line of her mouth twisted in bitterness. "No." She said shortly. "They're not Trask's."

"But you do recognize them." It wasn't a question.

She sighed. "Yes. They're members of a group called the X-men. They're the ones who left me in that hellhole." She added, more sadness than bitterness in her voice.

Gray eyes studied her. "Ah. Your former family. I'd wondered why they were looking to speak to Remy, and never mentioned you. Dey don't know you're here."

"And I'd like to keep it that way," Roisin replied.

"Not a problem. So," he said, changing the subject, "as we discussed briefly yesterday, while you and Remy are…overseas…y'might as well be useful to de Guilds, an' finish up some things for us."

"Such as?"

"Returning dat pile o' rocks to France, for one," he nodded at the ransom of rubies still encircling her throat. "De different guildhalls are due for a personal visit. We need to let 'em know we're keeping an eye on them, and if they want to keep Thieving and Assassinating, they still owe allegiance to the Source, Marius, and me."

"Marius?" she repeated in surprise.

"Yes, remember? De guilds are co-dependent. And you'll be taking copies of the new treaty to the Assassins' guildhalls."

Her eyebrows rose in alarm. "What?"

He laughed. "Marius and I discussed it earlier, when de Source told us dat you an' Remy would really have to leave the country. He said there was a good bit of assassin in you, as well as t'ief. Dat, if necessary, you'd be as ruthless as you had to be, to keep y'self and Remy safe. 'Donna agrees. She said you went right after dat_ batard_ in de alleyway, first to get Remy away, then to take him out. De assassins t'ink you'd make an excellent envoy to their guildhalls." He looked at his watch. "I'll get you an itinerary, and a list o' contacts. But we need to be ready to put you and Remy on a plane as soon as possible." He sighed. "I suppose it's just as well we were already planning on getting de two o' you out of here."

She nodded, pushing down rising panic; going to pieces now certainly wouldn't help. "Very well. Where are the suitcases?"

When Remy arrived twenty minutes later, they were packed and ready to go—and Roisin's room was on its way to looking like it had always been a storeroom, should anyone come looking for signs of a young couple matching their description living in the house.

_And they will come looking,_ Jean-Luc thought. _But damned if I'll give up dat girl _mon fils_ loves. The look in her eyes when she saw those pictures… No. I won't give her up, even to her former 'family.'_ He surveyed the swift work, but it was moving smoothly. A bevy of Thieves had volunteered to go with Roisin and Remy, and when most of them had been turned down, they volunteered instead to help cover their tracks: the Guild liked Roisin, and wanted her to be able to come back with Remy someday. With everyone's assistance, by the time the sun was rising, Roisin and Remy were taxiing down the runway on a plane bound for Spanish shores.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Shortly after dawn, there was a knock at the LeBeaus' door. In Jean-Luc's office, Henri queued up the images from the cameras surrounding the main entrance.

"_O__ui, __pere_," he said over his shoulder. "Like you thought: it's dem."

"Well." Jean-Luc stood, looking as though he'd just woken, not stayed awake for the past day and a half. "Let's go welcome our unwelcome guests, shall we?"

As they moved through the halls, Mercy joined them, handing them cups of coffee. "They got away all right?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes. So far as we can tell, anyway," Henri said. "We should get a message tonight."

"We're about to see how effectively we've erased traces of Roisin, though," Jean-Luc informed her. "Her former teammates from that Xavier place are here."

Mercy frowned. "_Those_ bastards. They nearly broke her spirit when they left her there, did you know that? You _can't_ tell them we know where she is!"

"I didn't intend to," Jean-Luc returned coolly. "In fact, I believe they think her dead, and I'm just as happy to let them believe that. After all, she _is_ lost to them. She's a great asset to us, and I do not want to think about Remy losing her. She's ours, now."

By this time, they'd reached the front door. Another impatient knock sounded. _Rudeness,_ Jean-Luc thought derisively, and jerked the door open. He couldn't _stand_ rude people.

"What d' y' want at dis hour?" he demanded of the two surprised men standing on his stoop.

The one in front, a short, fierce-looking man, thrust a photograph at him. "We want to talk to him."

Jean-Luc eyed them suspiciously, barely even glancing at the photo. "He's not here."

"Bullshit." The rude one returned. "We _know_ this is his address." _Thanks to Xavier picking information out of the local cops' minds_, he added silently.

Henri took an aggressive half-step forward. "Nonetheless, he is not at home."

"But he was in town last night!" the younger, earnest-looking one broke in. "I talked to him at the theater."

"And he is not here now." Henri repeated. "Besides, if you spoke to him last night, what more could you possibly have to talk about?"

The short one sighed. "Look, could we come in? Maybe you could help us where he" he indicated the photograph "couldn't help us."

"Or wouldn't?" Mercy interjected sweetly. The short one glared.

Jean-Luc stepped aside. "Perhaps we can help you. Come in."

A short time later, they were sitting in one of the 'public' parlors, staring across from one another at a low coffee table. "So." Jean-Luc leaned back in his chair. "What is it you wanted to know?"

"He was in some sort of lab complex for several months." The younger one, who'd introduced himself as Scott, said. "Someone we knew was there, as well. We've been trying to figure out how she died."

"Why?" this from Mercy. The two men blinked at her in surprise.

"Why… what?" Scott asked.

"Why do you want to know how she died?"

"So… we _know. _So we can move on."

"She's dead to you," Mercy replied dispassionately. "What more do you need to know?"

Logan, the shorter one, said, "We need to know so it doesn't happen to anyone else. One was enough."

"One?" Henri scoffed. "Dere were _thirteen_ people being tormented in dat place, including him." He tapped Remy's photo. "But all you're concerned about is the one girl. And really, you're not even concerned about _her,_ just yo'selves, yo' own peace o' mind." Scorn laced his words.

"That's not—" Scott started to say, but Jean-Luc cut him off, derisively. Who _were_ these people who thought they could suddenly _care_ about their Roisin, their _Rose Noire?_

"O' course it's true. Y' want to find out how she died b'cause_ you_ need closure. You're only concerned about Trask because one of _yours_ was taken. _We_ had one o' ours taken, too, but we also arranged for de other survivors t' get money, counseling, whatever dey needed. Let 'em know dey weren't alone. What've you done for them?" Silence met the question, and neither Logan nor Scott would meet their eyes. It was true; they'd barely spared a thought for that sad line of straggling figures stumbling out of the complex.

Disgusted, Henri shoved himself out of his hair. "Fine. Y' want t' know what happened to her?" He turned to Jean-Luc. "_Pere,_ let's show dem."

Jean-Luc thought a moment, and then nodded curtly. "Yes. It might convince them to leave well enough alone. After all, if their friend died there, _she_ doesn't need their help anymore. And it doesn't look like they're interested in helping anyone else." He looked at the two men, who were looking much subdued. "What was her number?" Blank looks. "Y' don' even know what they numbered her. O' course." He huffed out a breath. "What'd she look like?"

"Thin. Auburn hair, with white streaks in it," Scott got out.

"Hmm. MS-13, then. Wait here." Jean-Luc went to his office and retrieved the records and tapes Remy didn't know he had. After Remy had come home, Jean-Luc had sent Thieves to hack the police files and evidence rooms of information from the lab complex. He got the records and relevant discs now, brought them to the parlor, and set several thick folders on the table, along with a dozen or so discs.

He eyed the strangers' belligerent faces. _Best to make sure they have no excuse to come back,_ he decided, and said, "I can assure you, you will want leave after you see what we have to show you. I'm sure you didn't show up on our doorstep at dawn just to talk. What else did you want?"

Logan spoke up. "I wanted to look around. The guy _isn't_ the only one we're looking for. There was a girl with him in Chicago last weekend, and a couple of other places. We think she has information on Rogue, too."

Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows. "You're looking fo' a girl he was with a week ago in a city a t'ousand miles away? He's had a lot of girlfriends, an' picks up more wit'out even trying."

"But I think she was _here,_" Logan returned. "I have… ways… to tell."

Jean-Luc shrugged, nearly out of patience. "Fine. Look around. But if a door is locked in this house, there is good reason for it. Ask before you break my doors."

Logan nodded briefly, gestured for Scott to follow him, and stalked out.

They wandered into a kitchen, where a fierce-looking older woman was viciously kneading dough. She scowled at them, at their presence, but said nothing. Logan breathed in, rolling the scents around. "There are traces of them both," he muttered to Scott, "but the spices in here are masking the scents. Let's go upstairs."

They gathered more dirty looks as they walked upstairs; Scott wondered what they'd done, or if this mob family was just that unpleasant. Logan said nothing, but his nostrils flared at every step, and outside one door, he growled, "This is that mutant's room." They searched inside, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to tell them how he was connected to Trask's laboratory, or how he was connected to the mysterious girl who might or might not have known Rogue.

Logan's frustration level visibly increased. "We've _got_ to learn more about that girl, Cyclops," he muttered. "Her scent carries so much of Rogue's that she must have been in a cell with her, or something. Maybe a blood transfusion?" His brow creased. "It's damned confusing. And her scent keeps friggin' changing, every time I get it, it's got a little something different to it. It's like she's… mutating, but subtly. And there's less 'Rogue' all the time; if we don't find her soon, I won't be of any use in tracking her."

"Let's keep looking, then." The young team leader replied doggedly.

They paced on a bit longer, when Logan abruptly stopped, nostrils flaring. "This. Here. Here's the girl's room. It's gotta be."

Scott cautiously peered inside the door, turned, and gave him a confused look. "Are you sure?"

"As much as I can be. Everyone's scents are mixed together in this place, but _her_ weird scent is strongest here. Why?"

Scott swung the door open to reveal a packed storeroom. The floor and several items were dust-covered. "It doesn't look like anyone's been in here for a while," Scott returned.

Logan snarled. "It doesn't make any _sense_." He turned. "Let's go see what else they've got."

They arrived back in the parlor where Henri, Jean-Luc, and Mercy waited, a measure more patiently than when they'd left. "Have a good tour?" Henri asked sardonically.

Logan pointed a finger at him. "Listen, bub, I don't know what you're up to here, but I'm going to find out."

"Up to?" Jean-Luc asked archly. "What we're 'up to' is protecting our _famille_ and its privacy. Nothing more. But I will go to great lengths to ensure dat _every_ member of my family is taken care of. Now." He pushed the file folders forward, and handed a disc case to Henri, who stood and began adjusting a television in a cabinet against the wall. "I t'ink you'll find de answers you're looking for _here,_ rather than skulking t'rough my house."

"Then why didn't you show us before?" Scott asked, annoyed at the apparent waste of time. "Why did you let us walk through your whole place?"

"Because," the leader returned smoothly, "if I hadn't offered, you'd have been convinced I was hiding somet'ing. I really don't want to see you here again. And I'm not hiding anyt'ing dat concerns you."

Logan snarled wordlessly, and snatched some of the folders from the gleaming surface of the coffee table.

Within the first vanilla-colored cover were complex medical records, covered in miniscule typing, on top of the thick stack. He leafed through, finding reports on "Mutant Subject 7," whose powers apparently included energy manipulation of some sort. Details of experiments were laid out on page after page, detailing hypotheses and testing methods, clinically recording results. In passing he noticed that they seemed particularly interested in his eyes, even going so far as to partially remove them from his head to examine them more closely.

The "subject's" responses were recorded scientifically, dispassionately, and without any apparent concern for his mental state. Logan could see no record of him ever being given any painkillers, either; several times, experiments were ended when the "subject" was "unable to respond due to pain-induced unconsciousness." Other times, the experiments continued whether he was aware or not.

He handed that folder to Scott to page through, and flipped the next, much thicker one, open. Mutant Subject 13. Female. 18 years old. Energy-absorbing powers. _Rogue_.

The unemotional terminology the report-writers used actually helped Logan, in that it gave him—just barely—the emotional distance to continue turning page after page of painful experiments. And—sometimes _not_ painful experiments, he realized with an internal shudder of horror.

"Sensory deprivation followed by stimulation to the brain and/or skin provides promising results," one note read; it had been highlighted and a marginal note referenced some other part of the file.

"Mutant subject begins to show initial traces of dependency on sensation. Pain-and-pleasure stimuli currently causing similar levels of reaction. Will review video to determine. Also further tests to determine and implement most accelerated path to addiction." A rare handwritten note depended from this sentence: "Video reviewed—HRT to unbalance hormones further? Trask suggests sexual stimuli fastest way for teen—addict w/o permanent phys. harm. Does not want drugs, wants brain strong clean of phys. disease. T. likes sense dep'vn idea, says effective. Has watched tapes, says MS13 has obvs'y dealt with pain often, but not pleasure stimulus—has no prior experience or defences. Myers to test further."

He glanced at the rest of the folder, and realised with dread that the form was barely a quarter of the way down the stack; he didn't _want_ to know how bad it got, and passed the folder on to Scott, giving him a cautionary glance.

He flipped open the third folder, glanced, down, and nearly dropped the file.

Pictures. Full-color to somewhat grainy black and white, close-ups to shots from ten feet away, a young man with black and red eyes glared up at the camera, at the scientists, at anything and everything for the first dozen or so images. Then, pain perceptibly entered his face. Blood trailed from his tear ducts in some shots, and others looked like some Hollywood horror effect as metal implements stretched his eyes wide open around the sockets, black spheres rolling wildly. A few with his face slack, looking nearly dead, obviously unconscious. Accompanying each shot was a printout of his vital signs and a timestamp, no doubt matched to the videos previously mentioned.

Shaken, moving on near-autopilot, and without really thinking about what he was doing, Logan slapped that folder closed and flipped the next one open.

Rogue stared up at him—not accusingly, no. Worse. Unmistakable sadness was in those unbelievably deep eyes. Like the others, her shots, too, were in a variety of formats and distances, and were captioned by the same vitals and timestamp information as the young man's. There were shots where her lips bled from her teeth marking them, others where she lost the struggle and screamed silently from the glossy pages, shattering Logan's heart all over again. Difficult photos to see: unconscious, surrounded by white-coated scientists; struggling, hands holding her down; her eyes half-lidded with pleasure or pain; being given injections, having blood drawn. Shots of her hand being touched to some child whose photo froze forever on his face the shock and horror of being absorbed. One shot where she panted shallowly, exhausted, limply sagging against restraints, dully watching as a long strip of skin was removed from her arm. Her arm was lying partially in front of her face, muscles slack and unresisting, but not far enough in front of her face that her eyes weren't visible. The eyes in that shot were nearly dead.

He threw the folder away from him, barely resisting the urge to shred it instead.

Jean-Luc eyed him grimly. "You're not done yet," he warned him. "Y' haven't seen it all yet."

"There's more?" Scott asked, voice hoarse with horror, drawing his eyes from the images spread across his lap.

Jean-Luc nodded at the television, which both of them had forgotten about.

Henri pressed a button, and the image snapped to sudden brightness. They had it playing in fast-forward, and Logan was obscurely grateful; obviously, this mob family they'd stumbled on was not without sympathy.

Hours flashed by in minutes, white-coated people moving purposefully around whatever unfortunate was centered in the image. First was Rogue, fighting like hell. Then a girl with blue hair. A young man with green scaly skin. A nondescript-looking Chinese man, about thirty years of age. Rogue again. A girl of African descent whose eyes flashed, catlike, in the lights. The Chinese man again. The young man attached to this family, with the red-and-black eyes. Rogue, this time dragged in, apparently drugged. A man whose face continually shifted from young to old. A girl whose feet ended in tiger's paws. This family's young man again. Then, a thin man, who looked normal 'til one noticed the slitted eyes and bifurcated tongue. The blue-hair girl again, then Rogue. A girl who looked like she was caught in an ungrounded current, electricity coursing across her skin. The red-and-black eyed man. A middle-aged man who apparently had more joints than he ought. Rogue, but strapped to a cart. The aging man. Rogue again, and then the African girl. Another boy, whose face abruptly became that of a lion. Rogue.

Neither Scott nor Logan liked the pattern this was forming. Sure enough, as they watched, the "subjects" all lost weight, struggled less, were experimented on more exotically. They watched the red-and-black-eyed man's eyes being extricated from his head, and with gallows humor watched appreciatively as he blew up a tray of instruments, scientists fleeing. They saw him struggle, and get beaten around the head for his trouble, and watched him mouth off to what was apparently the head scientist. They very nearly cut his tongue out for whatever he said that day. Scott cringed when they carefully peeled the skin of his fingers down and touched instruments to various nerves in his hands, making his whole body flinch.

Rogue appeared more and more often, and it became obvious that she wasn't sleeping much, where ever she was when not in the experiment room. They watched her mouth move silently on the screen: mumbling when drugged, screaming and shouting when not, groaning as they moved scalpels across her skin, slicing and scoring her back, legs, arms, and moaning when they attached electrodes to newly-healed skin and ran currents _through_ her skin. Fear, anger, bliss, craving, fury, disgust—Logan was extremely glad the video was still on fast-forward; he didn't have to concentrate on any one thing, and he didn't have to hear the sounds that accompanied the images. A small blessing. But he'd take what blessings he could get—they'd only been watching about five minutes of film, albeit on fast-forward, and even _he_ was feeling a bit ill.

"Stop! Stop!" Scott's shout shattered the tense silence that had fallen over the room as they watched the images fly by. Obligingly, Henri blanked the screen, and resumed his seat on the couch. Scott lifted his head from shaking hands, but Logan was pleased to see, in a small corner of his mind, that the X-men's team leader was still managing to speak and function: far more than he'd managed after realizing Rogue's death. At least he wouldn't retreat into his catatonic state.

Scott looked from face to face, managing to make eye contact despite his glasses. "_Why?_" he asked, horrified. "Why would you make us watch—that?"

Jean-Luc's gaze was unexpectedly compassionate, acknowledging the horror, but having seen horror before, learning from it and moving forward. "Because you _had_ to see. You have to understand _why_ I will not allow anyone to further torment Remy—or _anyone_ who was in dat place—by asking him to talk about it, to remember it. No," he shook his head. "I won't do it. And I won't let you do it. We barely got th—him back alive and sane as it was. No." He swallowed heavily; obviously, this was no easier for him than it was for Logan and Scott. "He has come—so far, so very far, in reclaiming his life. Rebuilding his life. It was some time after he left there before he made his way back home. He'd done a lot of healing in the time away, but was still obviously deeply scarred by what had happened. I didn't even realize how much healing he'd been given 'til I saw this." He gestured vaguely at the dark screen glaring from the corner. Then, he lifted his head and fixed them with a steely gaze. "So, I'm not asking you, I'm _telling_ you: leave him alone. Now, please leave my house. Do not come back."

It was a quiet drive back to the hotel, and an even more heavy silence in the X-jet, as they pondered how to tell the others—or, for that matter, _whether _to tell the others—precisely how Rogue had died.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Soo… had to twist that ol' knife a bit further. Mwahahaha. Yes, I know I'm a tease. Don't worry, the next chapter is going to be an interlude to eat up time so I can get to the big confrontation. Let me know what you think! –Alara


	28. “It was a miracle of rare device,”

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 28: "It was a miracle of rare device,"

When Remy, Roisin, and the couple of Thieves and Assassins sent with them landed in Madrid International, they found themselves beckoned away from the usual flow of traffic by a member of security dressed in a suit; the Assassins' logo was stitched into the pattern of his tie, so they followed him.

From the clean, well-lit back rooms of the airport, they found themselves hurriedly supplied with a change in clothing and dossiers with new passports and what were presumably instructions for their tour of the Assassins' and Thieves' world; Rose wasn't sure, since they were written in code.

She laughed when she saw that her name on the passport was given as "Rose Roisin-Dubh Ashe." Remy's was his own name, but she supposed that anyone who actually _saw_ his passport would already know who he was.

When she asked about the "Ashe" as the surname, he sighed, rolled his eyes, and muttered something under his breath. "Dat'll only be for the duration of de trip," he assured her. "De guy who gets our passports likes t' play on words, an' he would have seen de IDs de Feds gave us. He also likes to poke fun at us 'cos we're always stealing and spying and such, and he uses a lot of _James Bond_ jokes. So, y' name is 'Rose. De Black Rose.' Dat's de Bond connection. 'Ashe' is a play on 'Byrne,' which sounds like 'burn.' When something is burned, it's reduced to ash, so, 'Ashe.' Apparently he t'inks yo' gonna start a lot o' fires in de Assassins' an' T'ieves' worlds." He winked at her.

"_Does_ he," she said thoughtfully, not looking displeased at the idea. During the long flight over, once she'd got over the bout of high-strung nerves from the night before, she'd had time to think about the task Jean-Luc had set her and Remy on.

Initially, she'd been flabbergasted that they'd ask her, someone so very new to the Guilds, to spread the word worldwide about the interGuild treaty, but once she'd thought about it, it made sense: she'd been friends with the daughter of the Assassins' Guild from the start, despite nominally being a member of the Thieves' Guild; her training from both the X-men and the Thieves assured her that there were few physical attacks she couldn't handle; and if those failed, she could always use her powers.

Her friendship with 'Donna and several other young Assassins gave the impression she was working for the good of both Guilds—which, of course, she was, despite being a Thieves' Guild member. Remy's presence added the weight of the head families' interest, as well as assuring the Thieves worldwide that neither Guild was kowtowing to the other.

Just then, the 'security guard' re-entered the room and beckoned to them, interrupting her musings: they were off to meet with their first Assassins Guildhall.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The initial contact with the foreign Guildhalls had gone well, Roisin reflected later, as they were ferried across the English Channel in someone's very expensive, sea-worthy yacht. She sat alone in the lounge. A short while ago, Remy had kissed her and excused himself, going to use the ship's phone to let his father know they'd arrived safely, and that Spain had signed the treaty. The Spanish Assassins' leader had examined the documents narrowly, even going so far as to verify Marius Bordreaux's signature against other documents. Once satisfied that it was genuine, however—and the biggest proof of that was the Thieves Guild leader's son sitting calmly in front of her—she happily added her name to the ratification of the treaty, and invited them to dine with her that evening.

Things between the Guilds in Spain must have been strained, too, since the news of the treaty was met with general celebration. Now, as one Assassin told her, the Spanish Assassins could get back to killing people they were being _paid_ to kill instead of retaliating against Thieves.

_Rather a grim way to put it,_ Rose considered, and then shrugged philosophically. _Well. I suppose that's why I'm _not_ an Assassin._

They arrived in France extremely late that night, nearly staggering off the yacht, and simply shuffled off to the nearest bolt-hole to collapse on beds and rest deeply before resuming their duties in the morning.

It took the French Guild leaders much longer to agree to sign the treaty. Both the local head thief and assassin balked at simply _signing_ the paper; _they_ both wanted different aspects of it explained, in minute detail, to them.

Remy and Roisin did so, which took all day. Finally they finished all of their questions and, exhausted sat back. They expectantly waited for the men to sign.

They didn't.

"We shall need time to think it over," the head Thief explained. "But go and enjoy our country while we discuss this treaty—we will call you when we are ready to sign."

"Or if we have more questions," the assassin put in helpfully.

Nothing for it but to do as they suggested, and so Rose and Remy (and the attendant Thieves and Assassins) spent a pleasant afternoon sampling wines and wandering around the area. By evening, no call had arrived, so they had a nice dinner amongst the six of them, and turned in, hoping for a call early the next morning.

By midmorning they realized what was going on: the leaders wanted to impress them with their hospitality and generosity and thoughtfulness, so they'd take a good report back to Marius and Jean-Luc. Nothing loath, they went on a weeklong driving tour of the area, shepherded by local guides from the Guild.

The leaders still hadn't signed when they got back.

"Well," Remy said, as they all discussed what to do, "I hear Paris is nice in April.""And we can celebrate your birthday," Roisin pointed out, and cut off his automatic protests. "Look, I _know_ your last birthday sucked—we were still in Trask's hands then. And it was your twenty-first, too. I'm going to make your twenty-second your best one ever. So what do you want?"

His face softened as he pulled her close. "Got everyt'ing I want right here," he murmured into her hair. "_Dieu, chere_, dat alone makes dis de best birthday ever!"

She smiled and pecked him on the cheek. "Now. Really. What do you want?"

_"Cheeere…"_ he groaned, as they set off down the street, the others chuckling behind them.

Roisin finally wore Remy down to accepting the newest cell phone from her as a birthday gift, as every other suggestion she made was shot down as impractical while they were travelling or unnecessary for his lifestyle. The cell phone he really couldn't argue with—especially when she let him use her photo as a background. "Now I get t' have y' with me _all de time_," he said, exaggeratedly syrupy, clutching the phone to his heart melodramatically.

She rolled her eyes. "Like I'm not already."

He smiled at her. "An don't t'ink I don't appreciate it. Usually I only get to look at Henri on dese trips. View's a lot nicer dis time around." He ogled her, then ducked her swing at him, laughing.

All in all, they spent four weeks in France before they finally secured the signatures, and in that time learned from the local guildhalls how to start a peasants' rebellion against the 'ristos—should they ever need to.

It set the tone for the rest of the trip, which took them nearly into the next year.

In Italy, which took three and a half weeks, they learned from the Guild's leading forgery experts, as well as enjoying the hospitality of an absolutely astonishing three-hundred-year-old villa on the Tiber.

From there they went up to Germany, where for five weeks they enjoyed obsessed-over beer and learnt how to ski with some degree of proficiency, as the German guildhalls were very close to the Alps. Roisin ended up spraining her wrist, and to her surprise these relative strangers were very concerned about it. She asked Remy about it as they sat in a lodge house sipping chocolate the next day.

He chuckled; she raised her head from his shoulder. "What? Why'd you laugh like that?"

"Yo' charming dem all, _chere,_" he said. "Why else d' y' t'ink all of 'em are taking so long to sign the treaty?"

She scoffed. "C'mon. It's an important document, one that bears some examination. After all, look at how long it took _your_ father and Marius to write the damn thing."

He smiled. "It doesn't need _dat_ much examining. Dey want t' keep you around."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure they do. The sarcastic weird mutant half-Assassin half-Thief."

"Who half de Guilds are in love with, now," he said. "I t'ought dat one guy from Italy was going to follow us here."

"Oh, hush. He would not have."

"And the chauffeur in France."

"He was _not_ in love with me. He was just… overly attentive." She said defensively.

"And de—"

She whacked him. "_Don't_ mention the kid from Spain, ok? He was annoying." She considered a moment, then turned worried eyes to him. "Do you think I'm doing anything to—"

He cut her off with a soft kiss. "No. I'm teasing. Mostly." He smiled into her still-worried face. "Relax. It's just dat yo' so damn likeable; yo' a good person, an' smart, an' beautiful, an' new to d' Guilds, an' important—y' got sent to carry de treaty all over de world, didn't you? It's no wonder dey all like you." Before she could think of a response, he kissed her again, more deeply this time.

"What was that for?" she asked, when she'd got her breath back. "Not that I mind."

"Gotta make sure y' remember me, with all de new admirers around, y'know."

She laughed. "As though I could ever forget _you_." She settled back against him, smiling.

"Besides," he said, "I happen to enjoy kissing you, chere. T'ink I'll do it more often."

"Oh, you do, do you?" She turned to mock glare at him, then kissed _him_ and resumed her former position. "That's okay. I happen to like kissing you, too." He smiled at that, content in the moment for once, and simply enjoyed the feeling of her leaning against him.

Three days later they were in Greece, where there was a _ton_ of food waiting for them at the set of rooms set aside for their use. They had a simply gorgeous view of the Aegean, and over the course of their three-and-a-half week stay, wandered over more ancient ruins and buildings than Roisin had thought possible.

After Greece, they took a slow two day cruise over to Turkey. Their stay there was relatively brief, only two weeks. Remy was disappointed to leave so soon; beneath the Thief Guild leader's stern exterior, he sensed a wicked sense of humor, and would have enjoyed drawing it out.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

From Turkey they had a week-long journey up to St. Petersburg, their next stop. The Russians were combat experts, and a great many of them were much larger than the two slightly-built Guild Seat representatives. Even the largest of their bodyguards, Joe, raised his eyebrows, somewhat dubiously, when challenged to a match by one of them. However, once it was established that Joe knew enough wrestling moves to be a good match against their brawn, they welcomed the sextet of visitors warmly.

So while Joe traded fighting moves with the Assassins and Thieves of Russia (who seemed to get along a lot better than other Guildhalls), Roisin and Remy met in dark-lit smoky rooms with the head of the Guild, a fierce-looking man with fierce-looking moustaches, who had a question about every part of the treaty. Once explained, however, he signed without a moment's thought. He caught Roisin eyeing him with bemusement.

"Well," he shrugged, "One has to be sure there are no loopholes being put in the treaty, yes? Just in case. Now!" He slapped a meaty hand on the table. "You have tried the ice-wine, yes?"

"I'm not sure…" Roisin replied cautiously, and glanced at Remy, her brow furrowed. "Did we?"

"Was dat the really sweet stuff last night?" He frowned. "We had a _lot_ o' stuff last night. Not sure."

The Guild leader nodded sagely. "Sweet? Then ice-wine it would have been. But _not_ my private stock. This, you must try. Come! Eat! Drink!" (This, apparently, was practically the Russian Guilds' motto; they'd heard it a dozen times since arriving.) Nothing loath, they followed into another smoky den of a room, and enjoyed a filling meal of the promised ice-wine, an oddly sharp-tasting soup called 'rassolnik,' a rich meat dish called 'pozharskie,' and a thick cake. They were absolutely stuffed after the meal, and Remy admitted in an aside to Roisin that he was glad they were leaving the next day. "I'd lose m' girlish figure eating like this," he joked. She rolled her eyes, and then had to admit the thought had crossed her mind, as well.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

From Russia they took a leisurely journey to India; while in an inn, somewhere near the border, they were summoned to the front desk for a call. Roisin cautiously picked up the receiver the smiling clerk held out. "Hello?"

"_Le Rose Noire!_ It's 'Donna. How's de worldwide tour going?"

"'Donna? Hi! It's going well, I suppose. I mean, at least here no-one's trying to kill us. Well, once they know who we are, anyway. It's a nice change. Except for the whole living-out-of-suitcases thing."

'Donna laughed. "I'll bet. Speaking of which, I have some news fo' y'. Well, y' an Remy."

Roisin's heartbeat abruptly increased. If _'Donna_ was calling them with 'news,' it could only be something related to Trask. Remy, standing close by, noticed her sudden stillness and focused his attention on her. "What is it, _chere?_" She waved him to silence as she repeated his question.

"'Donna? What is it?"

"Is Remy dere? 'Cause he should hear dis, too."

"Yes, yes, he's right here," Roisin hurriedly replied as she grabbed Remy by the neck ("Ow!") and pulled him close to listen in on the telephone with her.

"Good. Well, to put it simply, de _batards_ who were sent to shoot up y' place in Ohio… Well, dey aren't in a position to shoot at anyone else again. Or really do much of anything."

"You got some of his guys?" "Who?" "When?" Their questions fell over each other as they both spoke at once, shocked.

"I took care of it m'self last night," the Assassin said smugly. "Some o' Trask's top bully-boys, an' I made sure t' get information from dem first. _And_ we have some of de lab techs in hand. So we're hot on his trail, an' soon 'nough we c'n have you bot' back here where y' _belong_ 'nstead o' wanderin' all over de world."

_ Back home._ The thought made Roisin's throat close over with sudden homesickness, and she choked out, "Come back? When?" Remy's arm encircled her.

"Aw, Roisin, don' start cryin' o' you'll make me start," 'Donna chided her. "As soon as possible, is all I can say fo' now. We'll be in touch when we know more. Now, here, dere's some others who want t' talk t' you."

There were some sounds of shuffling, and then Jean-Luc's voice came over the line. "Remy? Rose?"

"We're here," Remy replied, as it became apparent Roisin wouldn't be able to speak; her face was pressed into his shoulder.

"Jus' want t' add a little more to de next part o' your trip. You're heading into India, yes?"

"_Oui, Pere,_" Remy replied.

"Good. Tell de head o' de Assassins guild dere that we're gon' need his best three people in N'Orleans in de Guild Seat by month's end. It's all part o' getting de two o' you back sooner, but it's best y' don' know. Somet'ing Marius and Belladonna been cooking up since y' been gone. I don't understand it all m'self, but I'll let de Assassins do their job, an' we get on with ours."

"Oh—yes." Jean-Luc responded to an unheard comment. "Henri t'ought y'd want to know: de X-men haven't given up looking for you quite yet, Remy. But dey think you're still somewhere in North America."

"But it's been over five months! Almost six!"

"Oh, he's been doing his best to make everyone believe you're still here," Jean-Luc replied airily. "Part of de master plan. It's been keeping Trask busy, too. Wait—"

There was a pause, and Jean-Luc spoke briefly to someone in the room. "I've got to go. But remember dat we miss you."

"Miss you too, _Pere."_

"Love you," Roisin said softly.

There was another brief pause, as though Jean-Luc had caught his breath. "We love y' too, _Rose Noire._ Hopefully we'll see you soon."

The line went silent and Roisin sagged against Remy for a moment, then straightened resolutely, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. "Well. If us getting to India will get us home faster, let's go."

Remy nodded. "Right. …Y' all right?"

"I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine. It's almost easier when we don't have phone calls, though," she sighed.

He echoed her sigh and pulled her close. "I know what y' mean."

They stood together for a moment. "Okay. Let's go to India." Roisin turned to pack, but found her hand caught by Remy, standing in the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.

"What?"

"I just realized…" he said, in a sort of stupefied wonder. "_Bon anniversarie, ma Cherie."_ He said.

"What?" she repeated dumbly.

"Dis is de day we got out o' dat hell-hole, an' it's de day we met," he said. "I just now realized what de date was."

She laughed a little in astonishment. "How did you even know what day it was when we were in there? You're amazing." She took a shaky breath. "Has it really only been a year? I feel like I've known you forever."

His smile was gentle as he drew her close. "I _have_ known you forever. I feel like time didn't start, not really, 'til I knew you. Everyt'ing before you… just feels like practice."

"My life began again when I met you," she whispered. "Rogue died under Trask; you gave me a new life, a new home, a way to be who I feel now I was always meant to be. But I couldn't be her without you—no wonder I never felt like I fit in anywhere else."

"But you fit in with us? With me?" he couldn't help asking anxiously.

"I feel like I was made for you." She replied quietly.

"Me too, chere. Me too."

There was really nothing more to be said, after that.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They arrived in India about mid-September, and the very ground was baking when they arrived. They ended up buying an entirely new set of clothing to deal with the heat. Mostly they stayed in their relatively cool rooms, venturing forth only to try and hammer home the treaty.

"Gosh, I thought Mississippi was hot an' muggy," Roisin was heard to mutter—the heat was affecting her badly, and her fair skin nearly blistered even without venturing into the sun.

"My poor river rat," Remy said, as he handed her a cool glass of water. "Just make sure y' keep dat sunscreen on.""I know."

"And y' hat."

"I _know_."

"And keep well-hydrated.""You want this glass o' water back at fifteen miles an hour, Cajun?"

Wisely, he fell silent, but smirked.

The Guild leaders here tended to speak in riddles, and Remy and Roisin and their bodyguards spent a lot of time dissecting the seemingly offhand comments as they reviewed the treaty.

" 'Lotus blossoms open, so elephants may walk'? What de–? An' I t'ought de _Source_ was cryptic," Remy complained.

Still, the leaders eventually signed, and the requested Assassins were duly dispatched to New Orleans. Roisin tried not to feel jealous as they left. Remy seemed to read her mind and hugged her. "I know. We'll be home soon enough."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Fortunately, the next several months went by quickly, with stops in Indonesia, where they heard that the X-men were apparently finally giving up; then a mid-October stop in Egypt, where Remy kissed her on top of a pharaoh's tomb when they heard (via satphone) that one of the lab techs had cracked and revealed where Trask's home was; in early November, they made a stop at the guildhalls in Madagascar, where the Thieves Guild had a prehistorically-large beetle as a pet (his children could ride on the thing); and by mid-November they were one step closer to home as they arrived in London and its labyrinthine underworld.

By this time, they were reliably informed, the X-men had completely ceased all attempts to locate Remy, though apparently the young, uptight leader ("That would be Scott," Roisin sighed) hadn't given up hope. They enjoyed a quiet Thanksgiving meal in one of the guild's uptown apartments, to the interest of the local Thieves, who were amused to find that their American counterparts really _did_ eat turkey and stuffing for the holiday meal, in support of the stereotype. It was completed when Joe managed to find a simulcast good ol' American football game on television.

By the first of December, they were flying into Shannon, Ireland, for their next guild meeting. "Where do we go after this?" Roisin wondered aloud, as they shuffled off the plane in predawn darkness toward nondescript looking cars.

"If we're _still_ not able to go home," Remy groaned at the very thought, "It's on to South America. If we go t'rough _dat_, I have no idea, since dose'll be de only halls we _haven't_ visited."

"Maybe we can steal _The Scream_ again," Joe suggested. "That's always interesting. We haven't taken it for, oh, two years now."

"Hmm. Dat's an idea," Remy brightened at the thought. "But which version to take… Hmm."

"With any luck, we won't have to figure that out," Roisin pointed out. "Heck, with a lot of luck, we won't even make it to South America."

The others nodded wearily—they were as tired of travelling as she—and stepped into the cars.

A few days later, they were being taken on a tour of the countryside by their hosts, the leaders of the Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds here, who seemed to cordially despise each other.

"We went to school together," one said.

"And we're second cousins," the other added, as though this explained everything.

Having seen some of the spectacular arguments they'd gotten into already—one of them over what the exact moment of sunrise had been that morning—Remy and Roisin merely nodded. "So," Remy leaned forward. "De treaty…?" They'd been avoiding the topic since their arrival.

"Ah, we'll get to that in good time. Now, _here's_ an interesting place, up on the left…" the woman rattled on as she guided the car along what seemed to be an astonishingly tiny road.

In the back seat, Remy slung his arm across the seat back, and proceeded to ignore them. "Y' birthday is in a couple of weeks," he muttered to her. "Y' want anything?"

"I want to go _home,_" she replied plaintively, and shrugged. "Since you have no more control over that than I do…" she shook her head. "I don't really need anything.""Dere's nothing you want?" Remy pressed. "I c'n go back to England, get you de crown jewels," he offered.

"Nah," she said. "Like you said on _your_ birthday, I've got everything I want right here, sugar." She took his face in her hands and kissed him. "And that gorgeous bracelet you got me last year is pretty hard to top." She teased. "You set the bar pretty high for yourself."

"Well, I'll just have to find another way to sweep you off o' your feet, den."

"Hmm. You do love a challenge."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

For her twentieth birthday, he ended up getting her a necklace to match the bracelet; where he'd found an artisan to craft it in two weeks, she didn't know, but she liked the rich weight of the necklace lying across her collarbones. When she let him up for air, he commented, "So. Guess I _did_ manage to top last year's birthday gift?"

She whacked him in the side, and pulled him down for another kiss.

The next day, he was edgy, as they ventured forth to scale some five-hundred-year-old ruins. Roisin couldn't resist teasing him. "What, are you afraid the historical preservation people will come and run us off? And I'll never speak to you again for the embarrassment?"

"Somet'ing like that," he laughed, but his eyes were—oh, just the littlest bit—worried. She shrugged it off, figuring he was certainly allowed to be in a mood without her interference, and she'd make him talk it out only if it persisted.

They were halfway up the three-story wall, free-climbing, when he suddenly broke out of his silence. "_Chere?"_

"Yes, Remy?"

"Um—" He fell silent again.

"What is it? A little busy, here," she said, nodding at the expanse of stone rising above them, then peered down at where their bodyguard team waited. Oddly, none of them had wanted to climb with them. She gave a mental shrug. They must trust their ability to climb.

"Well." His voice again startled her as they were reaching the very top of the three foot thick wall. He reached down to help her over the lip; she took his hand gratefully and sat beside him as they caught their breath, enjoying the view. "I t'ink dis is about as alone as we're going to get, especially if we have to go on to South America," he said.

She looked around. "Yeah, I don't really see too many tourists making their way up here."

"Well, I want t' take de opportunity t' say—" He broke off, taking an unsteady breath.

She watched him with amusement. He was adorable when he told her he loved her, but sometimes, it seemed, it was difficult for him to get the words out. She scooted closer to him. "Hmm?"

He took another, deeper breath, and let his fiery gaze meet her own. "I—er—"

"Spit it out, Remy."

"Marry me."

"Yes." Came out of her mouth. She blinked. "What?"

He paused as he dug something from his pocket, and eyed her cautiously. "I just said, 'marry me,' an' you said, 'yes-what'. Was dat a question, an answer, or didn't you hear me."

She felt her jaw drop as her brain caught up. "It—wh—_yes_. Yes. It was a yes!"

"Yes?" He couldn't seem to believe it.

"Yes. Yes, I will marry you, Remy LeBeau!" suddenly a smile had taken over her face, and it didn't feel like it was going anywhere anytime soon.

"Really?" Before she could answer, his lips were on hers, joyousness radiating from him to her. Even his hair seemed to glow with happiness.

Quite a while later, when the wind at the top of the wall had thoroughly chilled them both, she stirred. "Hey, where's the ring?"

"The—oh. Yes. Here." He held it out to her, a beautiful platinum-chased claddagh with a large heart-shaped diamond. "I t'ought dis would go wit' your name, an'—well. T'ought you'd like it."

"I _love_ it."

"Do you know de story behind it?"

"A little… a man who was a goldsmith was taken from his lover by slavers, and while away made her a ring as a symbol of his friendship, enduring faithfulness, and love—the hands, crown, and heart.""He made it for her even though he was gone for years, and thought she must have moved on without him," Remy interjected.

"But she waited for him." Roisin looked up from her examination of the glittering ring in his hand. "I'll always wait for you."

"An' I will always be your friend, always be faithful, and always love you," he promised, and took her left hand in his. "May I?"

She nodded, tears of joy in her eyes as he slipped the ring up her finger. It was a perfect fit.

He drew her close again; they forgot about the wind for another while.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

So—I hope _that_ makes up for my distinct lack of update; in my defence, I'm studying for my Master's degree. :) reviews, questions, comments always welcome at alara underscore celt at hotmail dot com.


	29. To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 29: "To such a deep delight 'twould win me,"

When they finally got back to the hotel (all a little drunk, as they'd immediately gone into a pub to celebrate and to thaw out, which took them several hours), the girl at the desk waved them over.

"Ms. Ashe?" she said. "There's a phone message for you; they'd like you to call back as soon as possible."

Roisin glanced at Remy questioningly; he shrugged. He wasn't expecting any calls from home.

"Huh. Wonder who it is." She walked over to the desk and accepted the folded slip of paper from the girl, thanking her absently as she unfolded the paper. The message was brief, written on memo paper:

To: Rose Ashe Time: 3:24 AM/PM

Re: Big news!

Note: Call Mercy at 505-153-9082 ASAP. News about H., news about T. Must talk!!! Call soon!!!

"She particularly requested I put in the exclamation points," the girl at the desk said, almost apologetically.

Roisin rolled her eyes. "Well, at least I know it's _definitely_ from Mercy. But I don't recognize that number…" she frowned.

"Hmm. Here, call her from my phone. We can have it traced later if it's not her." Remy suggested, and handed her his phone. Quickly she dialed and waited as it rang once… twice…

On the third ring, it picked up and Mercy's breathless voice said, "Hello? Mercy speaking."

"Mercy, it's Rose," she said. "What's wrong?"

"What's wr—oh! My message must have surprised you. And this is a new cell. Sorry.—Hey, everyone, Rose is on the line!— No, nothing's wrong, actually everything's very very good. You'll _never_ guess! Try and guess what I'm going to tell you!"

"Ya just said I'd never guess," she replied dryly, smiling; her friend was excited about _something_.

"Oh, you're no fun."

"I can be. _You_ try and guess the news _I've_ got." She smirked into the phone, examining the ring on her hand delightedly.

"I don't know. You're the one who's been travelling all over the globe, doing all sorts of great things and having all sorts of adventures. It could be anything."

"See? I'm not the only one who's no fun." At that point, Rose started to feel Remy's stare boring through her head, and got back on point. "So, seriously. What's the news?"

"Do you want the great news or the better news first?"

"Uh—"

"Well, actually they're relatively great or better to each other; the part _I_ think is 'great' you might think is the 'better' news—"

"Mercy, I don't care. Pick one and spit it out." She cut her off, her own anxiety growing.

"I'm engaged." The other girl's glee hummed through the phone.

"What? Wow! Hey, no kidding. That's fabulous! —Me too!"

"I _know,_ isn't it—" she stuttered to a halt. "_What?!"_

Roisin heard muffled sounds on the other end of the line, and supposed that the others, undoubtedly gathered around the phone, were asking Mercy about her exclamation. She heard her say, distantly, "No, everything's good, I just—" She came back to the line. "Are you joking? Because if you are—"

Roisin laughed. "No, I'm _not_ kidding. I've got the ring to prove it. And I'm so excited for you! When did Henri propose?" She saw Remy's jaw drop as he overheard her, and he gave her an incredulous look.

"When—oh—well—yesterday, after we finished the mission. When did _he_—?"

"Today. We actually just got back from celebrating when I got your message."

"Good Lord, I can _hear_ your smile. Wait, let me tell the others." Her voice became a bit muffled again. "You'll never guess what, everyone—Remy finally proposed!" Muffled cheers and 'way to go's came over the line.

Henri called out, "To Rose, right? Tell him he's not allowed to come back unless he's proposed to _her."_

Roisin laughed again, and passed along the message to Remy, who rolled his eyes. He took the phone from her. "Mercy, put Henri on de phone, please." There was a slight pause. "Congrats, _frère._ O' course I proposed t' Roisin Dubh, y' t'ink I'm suicidal? An' at least I didn't take t'ree years t' get t' it, unlike _someone_ I could mention." Roisin couldn't hear Henri's response, but she suspected it was profane, since Remy threatened, "Oh, y'll pay fo' dat next time I see y', Henri. Here, put Mercy back on de line." Another slight pause, then, "Congratulations, Mercy. Glad t' see m' brother has _some_ sense. Here's Roisin back." He passed the phone back as she shook her head at his antics.

"So, what's the other piece of news?" she asked, when it seemed everyone had calmed down a bit.

Mercy became suddenly serious. "Well… You're coming home."

Roisin actually _felt_ herself pale, and the room began to spin slightly. "What?" she gasped quietly. Remy's eyes focused on her instantly, and their guards, sensing the change in mood, came to quietly surround them.

"Yesterday, we _got him_. We captured Trask. An' _le roi_ is keepin' him in a cell somewhere only _he_ knows about 'til you can get home and help us figure out what t' do with him. So, tomorrow morning, you'll get an overnighted package with your tickets home. We miss you."

"We miss you, too, and—oh Lord— we'll _see you soon_," she got out, over a suddenly full throat.

"I know—I bawled for two hours when I realized your running was over, finally. This is when Henri took advantage of my emotionally crumbled state to propose." The muffled 'Hey!' from Henri made Roisin smile a bit. "So, I'll let you go and get your bawling done yourself—and we'll see you. Soon."

"Yeah, see you," Roisin whispered, and hung up.

"_Chere_? What is it?" Remy's red eyes caught hers, concerned. "Is everyt'ing all right?"

_We're going home,_ she suddenly realized, and joy overtook her for the second time that day. She threw herself into Remy's arms and kissed him, then twisted away to hug the bewildered guards, and tucked herself back into Remy's arms and announced, "We're going home!"

The others let out a simultaneous whoop of excitement, and she felt Remy stagger against her, also knocked lightheaded by the news as she explained the circumstances to him. "Really?"

She nodded, smile overtaking her face. "Really. Our tickets will be here tomorrow morning.

He whooped for joy himself and kissed her. "Dat officially makes dis de second best day o' my life."

"The _second_ best?" she wondered aloud. "I said yes to your proposal, our most vicious enemy is imprisoned by your father, and we get to go _home_ after being away for almost a year of living out of suitcases. What on _earth_ could be your best day?"

"Oh, I decided _dat_ earlier. I just don't know what day it is yet. You tell me."

She shook her head in confusion. "What? How should I know? It's _your_ best day."

"What's de day you want t' get married, _chere?_Tell me, an' I'll know what day to most look forward to."

She smiled as she took his meaning. "As soon aspossible." She reconsidered. "Well, actually, I guess I should phrase that as 'as soon as _Tante_ will let me marry you.' 'Cos you _know_ she's going to want to go all out, and she'll probably say something like, 'Chil', you got de rest of yo' lives t' _be_ married, but only de one chance to _get_ dat way.' Or something."

Remy laughed. "Dat _does_ sound like _Tante._ Maybe we should elope?" He suggested brightly.

She gave him a what-are-you-insane look. "No… I _really _want to live more than ten minutes past getting home. If we eloped, then _Tante_ would kill me. If she didn't, Mercy would. And if for some reason _Mercy_ didn't, _'Donna_ would. So, no elopement. Try again."

"What d' y' t'ink?" Remy drew their bodyguards (by this long a time together all good friends) into the conversation. Suggestions rose on all sides and continued 'til they all went up to their rooms to sleep, leaving a very bewildered girl at the desk to stare after them.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Three days later saw them arriving on a red-eye, exhausted but exhilarated to be home again. Adding to their excitement was the fact that the whole LeBeau family was there to meet them at the airport, plus 'Donna and Marius Bordreaux. Mercy and 'Donna quickly sequestered Rose, to exclaim over the ring and their homecoming, and for Mercy and Rose to begin planning their weddings.

During the drive home, the talk turned to Trask and what ought to be done with him. Roisin had been thinking over it, as had Remy, and they'd come to one agreement, at least.

"We're not the only ones to have been harmed by him. The other survivors should be asked, even if all they say is they want nothing more to do with him," Rose pointed out. 'Donna grimaced, but nodded.

"Let's ask them quickly," she said. "He even creeps _me_ out." Her face had hardened at the mention of Trask. "That beast is a menace."

"'Donna suggested simply 'slaughtering him like the pig he is,'" Mercy confided to her in a whisper. "Marius had to… convince her otherwise. _I_ wouldn't have argued with her, though."

Roisin flicked a glance at the violet-eyed beauty calmly driving the car. "How did he convince her?"

"He promised her the next big assignment."

"The next—?"

"Whenever the Guild next gets contracted for a big hit, she's going to be the one executing it. Him. Or her, as the case may be."

"Whew." She blew out her breath, and exchanged a look with Mercy. "Well. _That's_ certainly a reminder that I'm back in the thick of Thieves and Assassins."

"You're telling me," Mercy returned. "They finally let me take a bigger role with taking out Trask. Actually, it was quite the familyaffair. Jean-Luc, Henri, me, 'Donna, Julien, the cousins…"

"Was that 'quite the family affair' or 'quite de_ famille affaire'_?" Roisin asked humorously.

Mercy chuckled at her sally. "Both, but more 'the family' instead of '_d__e famille_.' This was definitely more personal business rather than Guild business." She hugged her suddenly. "Oh, it's _so good_ to have you home, Rose!"

"It's very, very good to be here," she agreed, and settled back contentedly for the rest of the trip.

A few days later, Henri poked his head into her room, where she was writing emails to some of the Thieves and Assassins she'd met overseas. She turned at his knock. "What's up, Henri?"

He grinned. "Soon you'll be able t' call me _frère,_" he pointed out, and hesitated. "May I ask you somet'ing?"

She turned away from the computer to face him. "Sure." He hesitated again. "Look, I'm _not_ 'Donna. I won't kill you for asking the wrong question."

He chuckled at that. "She _is_ pretty damn intimidating, I'll give you dat. Not dat you aren't, yourself," he added. "Or _Tante…_o' Mercy, come t' t'ink of it. Wait, how'd we end up wit' all dese dangerous, strong-willed women around?"

"You're smart and have a good sense of self-preservation?" She suggested facetiously, and pushed errant white locks out of her face. "Now, quit stalling and ask y' damn question, already."

"Well. I wanted to know—actually _Mercy_ and I wanted to know—if you—and Remy—well, if y' wanted t'… share a wedding day?" He raised hopeful eyes to hers. "We don't want to wait t' get married either, an' neither o' us want t' step on yo' toes o' anything, but—" He stuttered to a stop at her smile.

"That's a great idea!" She exclaimed. "Why didn't Remy or I think of that?"

"Remy's not as smart as me?"

"Hey, that's _my_ fiancé you're insulting." She shook a fist at him. He mock-cringed in response. "Well, let me discuss it with Remy, first, but if he has no objection… I have no problem with that!"

He grinned. "Good. Dis _famille_ has a bad track record for wedding day disasters; I figure at least dere'll be safety in numbers."

She laughed at that, and as he left considered how much laughing she'd been doing since she and Remy got engaged. Hell, how much laughing she'd been doing since they'd _escaped,_ even with maniacs and the Feds and God-knew-who-else after them.

"I think I'm gonna _like_ being married to him," she decided, a sense of contentment filling her, and she turned back to her emails, pondering how best to convince Remy to marry her… as soon as possible.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

With herself, Mercy, _and_ 'Donna pushing for a wedding earlier rather than later, they finally managed t convince _Tante_ that March was not too early to have a nice wedding, and also that having a double wedding would not in any way detract from their enjoyment of that day.

"But every bride's wedding day is s'posed t' be _her_ day." The older woman fretted. "Not hers-and-someone-else's."

"_Tante_," Mercy laughed, and bussed her on the cheek. "It's sweet, but really—Rose and I _want_ to share our wedding day! We discussed the pros and cons, and talked it over with Henri and Remy, and we've all agreed that we couldn't imagine a better way to share our special day with everyone than to _literally_ share our special day."

"Besides, this way, the whole dang Guild doesn't have to show up twice." Roisin pointed out.

"Well. If you say so. But don't come cryin' t' _me_ if y' t'ink de other girl's stolen yo' spotlight; _Tante_ warned y'."

Roisin had a sudden awful thought. "_Tante,_ you haven't received any… premonitions, or anything, that would tell you this is a bad idea?"

"No, no, chil'." She waved her hand irritably. "Jus' goin' on what dis ole lady's seen time an' again from young brides. An' y' _are_ young."

"Well," Roisin shrugged, "Twenty might be young to get married, yes, but I'm a lot older than most twenty-year-olds."

Compassion entered _Tante _Mattie's face. "I know y'are, chil'. Wish it weren't so, but wishin' don't accomplish much. Well," she sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Guess you girls have convinced me. Yo' weddin's in March, then? Dat's only t'ree months to find dresses, figure out what food…" She started ticking points off on her fingers, and Roisin and Mercy grinned at each other. _Tante_ Mattie was on their side, now, and God help anyone who wondered at the speed of the double wedding _now._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

For a solid week, Roisin and Mercy practically lived on the street from all of their wedding-dress shopping, the time traveling from shop to shop spend poring over dozens of magazines. Eventually one of the older women in the Guild, Cara, took pity on them. "Silly girls," Cara, who was head of the reconnaissance section, chided them, taking the magazines out of their grasping hands. "Don' y'all know de t'ings you be lookin' for are right over your heads?"

She received blank looks in response. "De _attics, _girls, de _attics._ Tons o' t'ings dere could easily be fitted fo' y'all. An' dey're _meant_ fo' de Guild women. Come wit' me." She led the way, and, shrugging, Mercy and Roisin followed.

"Have you ever been up here?" Roisin asked Mercy as they followed Cara's swift steps up what seemed like hundreds of stairs.

"No," Mercy said. "I honestly forgot there even _were_ attics in this house."

They reached the top of the stairs, and Cara opened the door to the attics triumphantly. Instead of the expected dust and age, the door revealed neatly kept supplies, trunks, and other odds and ends arranged around the spacious room's walls.

"Wow." Roisin said, impressed. "This is some attic."

"It's my domain, since de recon group needs some t'ings for only a few particular jobs, but when we need 'em, we really need 'em. Still. Our stuff doesn't take up all de space, so we keep de Guild specialties up here—de masks, a lot of the jewelry, and—" She heaved open the doors of an immense wardrobe. "—de heirloom dresses."

Both of them gasped as dozens of gowns seemed to burst from the doors. Dresses, gowns, and scarves similar to Rogue's own were arrayed in what seemed like hundreds of colors and dozens of fabrics. The styles ranged from old to new, short to long, skimpy to voluminous.

By the end of the afternoon, Mercy had settled on a dress. Hers was a pure, pure white traditional-looking confection with pearls sewn all over the renaissance-style bodice in wandering patterns, which trailed gradually off as they encroached on a wide, multi-layered skirt of tulle that belled out around her. One of the multitudes of Guild scarves served her well as a wrap for her bared shoulders, and she happily declared herself ready to get married. "Did you find anything, Rose?"

"I think I just did," she replied, struck by the simple beauty of the gown she'd just unearthed amidst the riot of couture. The bodice was simply cut, with a square neckline that flattered her figure, and wide ribbons that served as 'sleeves' that skimmed just around the corners of her shoulders. The ivory colored satin nipped in at an empire waist and fell in shimmering folds to the floor; a small train cascaded behind. The bottom edges of the gown were cut in lacy patterns so that her feet and ankles flashed amidst swirls of fabric; the hem was weighted by delicate beadwork along the very edge, a gleam that caught the eye intermittently. She grasped a delicately-woven shawl comprised entirely of lace rose shapes that chased each other and lent an irregular edge to the shawl, but seemed to be _made_ for the gown. "Don't you think this would look wonderful as a veil?"

"Oh, Roisin Dubh, that's _perfect,"_ Cara gasped. "Y' might get _le diable __blanc_ speechless, fo' once."

"Wouldn't _that_ be something," Mercy chuckled. Roisin snickered, and agreed.

"Now, let's get dese down to de seamstresses t' make sure dey fit all right—Mercy, I t'ink we're gon' have t' shorten yours a little, an', Roisin, I want t' make sure dose capped sleeves stay put." Cara said briskly, and gathered up both girls and gowns to usher them downstairs. Before coming out to the last landing, she stuck her head out the door. "Henri!" she yelled. "Y' fiancée's coming t'rough wit' her dress, so you _git_."

They heard a muffled protest through the door. "I said, GIT." Cara repeated, firmly, and Henri's footsteps shuffled off. "An' _no peeking."_

"Aaw, Cara…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

After that hurdle was crossed, the rest of the limited planning and the rest of the time seemed to fly by. Time with Remy was scattered and fragmented, but always good, and she was happier by the day. Before they knew it, the end of March was upon them, and the wedding day dawned cool and clear. Roisin barely remembered any of the morning before the wedding—not the hairdressers, not the makeup artists, not the photographer.

She did, however, notice the odd person or two from the press standing around the parish church when she and Mercy arrived.

"Oh, them," Mercy waved her hand airily. "De press shows up fo' any notable event wit' de _famille._ You haven't been around to see it too much, though. Some people just like to mob-watch," she shrugged it off, so Roisin did as well.

Even if she _had_ been worried, it all would have fallen away when it was her turn to walk up the aisle. Jean-Luc was giving her away, and she swore she saw tears in the Guild leader's eyes as he offered her his arm. At that point, a brilliant smile overtook her face even as her eyes welled with tears of happiness.

"Y' look beautiful, _Rose Noire_." He whispered to her. "I don' t'ink my son deserves you."

"Probably not," she shot back. "But then, I would say _I_ don't deserve _him,_ so I guess we're even."

He only smiled in response, as the music indicated that it was time to turn and walk up the aisle then; she turned, caught sight of Remy waiting for her to one side of the altar, and completely forgot about everyone else in the room.

He seemed to be similarly struck, his eyes never leaving her veiled face as they slowly approached.

When they finally paused near him, he reached out for her hands before Jean-Luc had even finished lifting her veil. His hands were cold, and shaking. She turned that brilliant smile from Jean-Luc's paternal kiss on her cheek to Remy, and squeezed his hands in her bare ones. "It'll be all right," she mouthed to him, and tried to turn her attention to the priest.

It was no good, though; she already knew the prayers the priest was saying over them by heart, which left her mind free to ponder the weight of Remy's hands in her own, her own pounding pulse, carefully deep breaths, the slight drag of the veil on her hair…

As though from miles away, she heard Mercy and Henri give their vows to each other, and then Remy repeated the ancient promise to _her:_

"I, Remy, take you, Roisin, for my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part." His eyes burned intently as he gently slid the glittering white-gold band to rest against her engagement ring. "With this ring, I thee wed."

And then it was her turn: "I, Roisin, take you, Remy, for my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part." Her hands were suddenly clumsy; she nearly dropped his ring as she placed it on his finger. "With this ring, I thee wed."

And then Remy's lips were on hers, gently, softly, and all at once she could hear and see everyone again. Vaguely she heard the priest announce their new status to the church at large, but her whole focus was on Remy; the rest of the mass went by in a blur, as did the trip to the double reception. It was _not_ held in the same place as the ball had been, she noted with amusement; apparently _d__e famille_ had decided to let the media get its fill of the wedding day, in hopes that the couples would later be left alone.

Well. They'd see how well that worked out later, she supposed, but lost track of the thought as Jean-Luc beckoned them, and Henri and Mercy, close to him.

"What is it, _pere?"_ Remy asked, his arm around her tightening slightly. "It's not dat b—"

"No, no." Jean-Luc waved his concerns away. It seemed that his broad smile was permanently affixed to his lean face. "Just wanted t' give you all yo' weddin' gifts. Here." He pulled out two thick sheaves of papers, handed one to Mercy and the other to Roisin, and vanished into the crowd as only the king of Thieves could.

Mercy and Roisin exchanged equally puzzled looks, and unfolded their respective papers.

Roisin was the first to realize what they were. "Oh my _God."_

"What is it?"

"It's a—a _deed._ To a _house._" She read a bit, and laughed. "On Guild seat property, but far, far away from the main house. About two miles away across the swampy part."

Henri was reading their own deed over his new wife's shoulder, and chuckled. "Ours is 'bout half a mile from yo's."

"Guess dey want t' make sure de newlyweds get their privacy." Remy commented, and got a smiling eye-roll from Roisin in response.

"Good," came a sudden comment from Belladonna, who was lounging against a nearby pillar. "'Cos dere's not'ing more annoyin' den a bunch o' newlywed lovebirds makin' googly eyes at each other over breakfast."

"_Googly_ eyes?" Roisin repeated incredulously. "Right, 'Donna."

"Mark my words. _Googly_ eyes. You will." The girl smirked, then hugged both of the brides. "Thanks, by de way, fo' not saddlin' me wit' some hideous bridesmaid's dress. Y're good friends. And," she added, with a significant look at the grooms, "'f y' ever need help keepin' dese two in line…" she winked. "Congratulations again."

They thanked her, and circulated on to their next guests, in between times marveling at Jean-Luc's generosity, and happily wondering if anyone would be offended if they redecorated. The reception went on for hours, but the happy couples excused themselves long before any guests started to leave.

When they arrived at their house—_their house!—_Rogue thought excitedly, they spent some time puttering about, checking out the rooms, the sparse furniture—it looked like someone had _planned_ for them to redecorated, she noted with approval. The Guild's magic had ensured that their wedding gifts were neatly piled in a corner of the living room, neatly labeled as to who had gifted what. Remy suspected _Tante._

Finally, with a shared glance, they headed upstairs. Rose felt suddenly shy, standing in the doorway of the master suite. Someone had scattered rose petals across the floor; their heady scent rose to surround them. She laughed when she realized that same someone had dyed some of them to be 'black roses,' so red, black, and white motes danced across the deep pile of the carpet.

Remy's warm arms curled around her waist, where she hesitated in the doorway. He tucked his chin into the crook of her neck. "Nervous?"

"A little," she admitted, biting her lip. "Not only have I never done this, I never thought I _could,_ so…"

He smiled gently at her. "'s okay. I'm nervous, too."

A surprised laugh burst out of her. "You are?"

"Yeah. Do somet'in stupid here, would ruin my reputation forever." He slid one capped sleeve off of her shoulder, and kissed it. A pleasant tingle emanated from the spot. "But den, I'm a married man now. My reputation doesn't mean anyt'in'. Only you do."

Shyness, nervousness fell away as desire enflamed her. She reached out to pull him down to kiss her, and soon found herself plastered against him. She pulled back, but his hand in the middle of her back kept her in place. "It's okay, _cherie._" He reminded her, "We're married now."

"We are, aren't we," she said in wonder. "I'm _married._"

"Now, my sweet Rose," he said, mock-serious as his hands dipped lower on her back, then slid higher to begin to tug at the long row of buttons on the gown. "Y' know I've been t'rough a wedding before. An' de main reason we got dat non-marriage annulled so easily was dat it was never consummated." He'd gotten the first half-dozen or so buttons undone. "What d' y' say we make dat an impossibility fo' us?"

"_Yes_," she said simply, and began working on his buttons herself.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Yes, I know this chapter is another rush-through-info type of chapter… but there's really no reason to go through every friggin week pre-wedding, etc. Plus, the characters want me to get to the next 'good part,' but I've got to build the bridge to _get_ there first. Thanks for all of your reviews—over a thousand now, waahoo!—and please, please, keep them coming. I really do appreciate it when people take time to write a note about what they like or dislike or whatever—it makes the time _I_ spend _writing_ seem much better spent, much more worthwhile. –Alara


	30. By woman wailing for her demon lover!

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 30: "By woman wailing for her demon-lover!"

A week after their wedding, Rose and Remy went to see Trask. Jean-Luc had him in a sparsely furnished room deep beneath the Guild Seat; Rose thought it might qualify as a sub-subbasement, judging by how long it took to reach the bottom of the elevator shaft. As it was, the room basically was the modern equivalent of a dungeon. She wondered how they kept the water out this far down into swampy earth and how they'd managed to build it in the first place.

She caught her first glimpse of the man since their meeting in Chicago, and all questions were swept away by a sudden wash of anger. Inch-thick glass divided the holding cell from the open hallway leading to it. Through it, they could converse with Trask but be definitely separated from him. It turned the room from seeming like a holding cell to seeming more like an exhibit in a zoo, which Rose thought was only appropriate. When they approached the glass, the man inside was sitting in the room's single chair, back military straight, gaze flatly ahead of him.

That changed as soon as Trask caught sight of her. He sneered. "Bitch. I'd like to pay you back for our meeting in Chicago. You broke my nose!"

Her gaze was flinty as she replied. "Your nose is the least of your problems. Aren't you interested in knowing how long you've got left to live? Not to mention the quality of that short time."

"And what do you think you can do to me?" He rolled his eyes, as though it were he who was still the captor.

"Plenty; but it won't be up to just us," Remy replied, putting his hand supportively on her shoulder. "We are goin' t' ask every one of dose people y' had imprisoned, an' see what dey want done wit' you. If we're lucky, dey'll t'ink ma pere should take care o' you himself."

"And who is your father that he thinks the authorities won't notice? I'm an important man! People will have noticed I'm not around! They'll look for me!"

"Dey t'ink y' drove y' Jeep into a river in Oklahoma," Remy assured him. "Did y' t'ink we were holdin' y' fo' ransom, o' somet'ing?" the sudden graying of Trask's face told him that he had, indeed, thought just that.

Rose smiled sweetly at him. "We're holding you for revenge." She informed him, and the man choked. "If I have anything to say about it, you'd only have a couple of weeks of life," she told him. "In any case, we won't have you _here_ past that. And at least take comfort in the fact that _you_ know when it will _end,_ which is more than you gave any of us, you sick bastard."

As they turned to leave, he leapt up, screaming, "I tried to _fix_ you freaks—you're an evolutionary mistake—you should be wiped out!" Remy flipped him off, and steered Rose toward the door. A crafty glint entered Trask's eye as he saw the wedding band on Remy's finger, and found its match on Rose's. He spoke to her. "So, Mutant 13, is he enough for you? Do you scream for him like you did for me? I liked your screams. Every sound you made meant I was one step closer to eliminating all of you freaks—One step closer to breaking your mind—"

Rose spun and replied, in a tight, cold voice, "Shut up. He's more man than you could ever hope to be—do you _want _me to dissect your…techniques? The amount of probing and experimentation it took to get me to say _anything_?Yes, you made me scream. You're a _horror_; _you're _the abomination. You'd make anyone with a shred of decency scream. You're just a sick, twisted, soulless _thing_. I'm pretty sure 'human' doesn't apply to you."

She turned to leave, and Remy pinned Trask with a stony glare. "De next time y' see us, you'll be close to dyin'." He promised him, and joined Rose in the elevator.

There was a stormy silence in the elevator; Remy wouldn't look at her. Her face burned; she knew, now, he hadn't been aware of the exact nature of some of Trask's experiments on her, even with Trask's boast that he'd been trying to get Rose addicted to him, to use her powers more effectively. When they reached the main level of the house, Remy finally turned to face her. She flinched in preparation for his scorn, his disappointment that she hadn't told him about it earlier. Like, say, before they got married.

To her relief, he merely pulled her to him, and said quietly and slowly into her hair, "Rose. Tell me—is he right? Do I hurt you? Do I not… give you enough of me when we're together? Or too much? Please. I want t' be sure I make you as happy as you make me when we're together. Did I rush you into marrying me?"

She pushed back and gaped at him in astonishment. "Did you not hear me down there?" she demanded. "Did you think that was just for Trask's benefit? It was the truth, Remy. He manipulated my body, yes, in just about every way a body _can_ be, but—well—" She blushed. "It is true," she said carefully, "that he experimented with—pleasure—as well as pain, when he was testing me. And—" She swallowed a breath. "And—I—I responded to both. I _really_ couldn't help it."

"_You did not choose that,_" he said intensely. "You're no more responsible for any—reactions—t' him dan you're responsible for sneezing when y' breathe in pepper. And he was smart about it," he grudgingly admitted. "He chose _you_ t' do dat to because you _had_ no defenses, no experience with intense physical feelings, especially good ones, b'cause o' yo' mutation. But you were stronger dan him, _cherie._"

"I wasn't," she said forlornly. "I wasn't. I begged them to not make it hurt, to make it good instead—"

"I'll bet you begged _until_ he said he wouldn't unless you agreed to help him. Am I right?" he asked shrewdly. She blinked at him, surprised. "D' y' t'ink you're de only one he tried to make deals wit'?" He asked gently, and kissed her. "He offered to release all o' de rest o' you if I helped him willingly." He shrugged. "I didn't believe him, either."

She sighed, and buried her face in his neck. "Have I told you I love you today?"

"Only once, I t'ink."

"Well, then. I love you."

He smiled down at her. "_Je t'amie, ma chere._" He straightened. "Now. Let's find out what de ot'er survivors want done wit' him, hmm?"  
She chuckled evilly. "This should be good."

"Very cathartic."  
"Oh, yes."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It took a few weeks, but eventually they gathered together all of their fellow-survivors who wanted to chime in on a fitting punishment for Trask. Only two declined their invitation, so the eleven remaining discussed the issue. One wanted him beheaded and staked like a vampire; another would like to see him dismembered—alive. Another liked his Dante, and proposed they see how long one man could stand _Inferno-_inspired torture.

An older man, who'd sat thoughtfully through the discussion, leaned toward Rogue. "What, my dear, is the exact extent of your powers?" He looked around the attentive circle. "I have an idea which should suit all present, without quite sinking to _his_ level…" They leaned in, interested.

After much discussion, they leaned back, satisfied. "I like it," one woman declared, and glanced at Roisin. "As long as you're up to it?"

"For this, I will be," she replied grimly, then softened as she glanced at Remy. "Besides, I won't be alone."

She started training the next day, using Remy and the rest of the survivors (and a few volunteer Thieves and Assassins) as guinea pigs. The final punishment was this: Rose, assisted by one or two other of the former prisoners who had mental powers, would establish a mental loop of all the tortures he inflicted upon his former 'test subjects.' A healthy dose of emotional battering would be added, and his sense of time would be distorted as terribly as theirs had been during their months in the lab complex.

Because of the news coverage surrounding the explosion of the complex, and the prisoners' subsequent release, the public was already strongly biased against the as-yet-uncaptured and unidentified madman who'd been in charge of the terrible place. (Guild contacts in the media realm didn't hurt, either.) Remy dimly recalled catching some of the coverage while they'd been in the hospital; theories as to the purpose of the place, he recalled, had ranged from a sort of plastic surgery chop-shop to an immense slavery ring. All the theories had been geared to garner sympathy for the then-anonymous individuals penned within the innocuous seeming buildings.

Part two of the revenge plot was to wait until Trask was raving and willing to confess all through the slow torture of experiencing their memories. When he was willing to say anything to make it stop, they'd dump him in front of a police station where he could babble away and incriminate himself. With luck, he'd be thrown into maximum security, or death row; at worst he'd be imprisoned in a psych ward for therapy. Either way, he'd be effectively embarrassed, guilt-ridden, and unable to harm anyone else. Additionally, no one but the most fanatical would even be willing to listen to his monologue on the subject of the evil of mutants. The resultant good press would be a help to mutants everywhere.

And the rest of them could get on with their lives without having to look over their shoulders at every turn.

By diligent effort, it took Rogue and her assistants less than a month to infiltrate Trask's mind. It took another three weeks to firmly establish the looping, shifting memories in his mind's eye, interspersed with periods of stretched mental silence that wore on his nerves like the sporadic waiting had worn on theirs.

They stopped only when his eyes began to roll back in his head as the memories struck. The last session, Rogue turned back only once, to look at the man curled into a twitching ball in his cell. Silently, she turned away, and shook her head once. She maintained her silence 'til they were back on the main floors of the Guild seat.

"It's done. I don't want to see him ever again," she said quietly but firmly to Remy and his father. Jean-Luc nodded curtly, and Remy gave her a long look, then nodded as well—her eyes were calm and clear. Really, nothing else needed to be said: "It's done."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Trask made a splashy reappearance on the news (prompting mass media speculation about death penalties versus incarceration versus rehabilitation, as well as a very few who thought to wonder whether Trask had turned himself in or been dragged to the DA's offices).

There were a few tabloid articles that mentioned the New Orleans Guilds' involvement, which worried Rose 'til she realized that people who would believe the articles would probably think of that theory _without_ the tabloids' help, and any people who _didn't _think of it on their own would be discouraged from believing it when they considered the source.

As a result of the attention, there was a brief spate where the paparazzi presence was more obnoxious than usual, but it died off; by this time, she'd become so used to the ever present shutterbugs she hardly noticed the increase.

About a month later, when things had calmed down, the Guild was approached by one of its sister branches of New Orleans' criminal family tree for some assistance with a troubling problem. Specifically, they came asking for _le Rose Noire—_the Black Rose's—abilities.

As he did with any other Thief who'd been specifically asked for, Jean-Luc requested that she meet with him that afternoon, knowing full well she wasn't working another job or any other project (being Guild leader _did_ have its perks, sometimes, especially when dealing with scheduling). He presented the basic information to her, and sat back, waiting her response. She was terribly fun to disconcert, and as seamlessly as she fit in the Guild, there still were elements that surprised her.

Roisin stared at Jean-Luc from across his large, polished desk for a moment in utter astonishment. "You talked to the leader of the _what?!_"

"De Whore's Union."

She blinked. She _had_ heard it correctly the first time. "The whores have a _union?_"

"Sure," Jean-Luc shrugged. "They keep the girls clean an' off o' drugs, mostly, an' take care o' 'em if dey fall pregnant or pick up a disease, an' try t' help get 'em set up for jobs when dey want out or get too old t' work. After that, de girls're on their own, but dey keep more o' their take while in de Union than wit' a pimp, an' get two days every two weeks off. De union gets dues and information in return."

"Oh." Roisin considered for a moment, dozens of comments—and questions—on her tongue. She shook her head and concentrated on the most pertinent one. "What do they want with me?" she asked, cautiously. Jean-Luc chuckled at her discomfiture.

"Not'in' you'd object to," he assured her. She remained apprehensive. He tried again. "Not'in' _Remy_ will object to." She relaxed. He amended, "Well, not _much_ he'll object to." Seeing her tense again, he said, "Calm down. Dey don't want you as a whore. Well, not exactly, anyway."

"_Pere,_" she said flatly, leaning forward, "_tell me_ what th' Sam Hill is goin' _on_ before you give me a heart attack!"

He smiled involuntarily at the name she'd begun intermittently calling him after her marriage, then settled back in his chair. "Let me begin at de beginning…"

"That would be nice," she interjected, and settled back in her own chair to listen.

What the Sam Hill was going on, as it turned out, was this: some members of the Whore's Union had begun to return from their nighttime endeavors far more bruised than was normal, and with reports of suddenly crueler patrons. _A_ patron, as it turned out, when the women who'd been injured finally got around to comparing notes, and realized they'd all been with the same man. Unfortunately they'd only compared notes when one of them had been sliced across the face and landed in the emergency room.

Normally, the Union's bullyboys would sort the matter out, the person in question would pay the medical expenses, and he would simply never again be permitted to enter the red-light district. This one, however, was wily. While he obviously _preferred_ the 'Exotics'—multiple-pierced, one-legged, green-haired, what have you—he didn't limit himself exclusively to them: sometimes he went for a classic glitzy hooker, or for the sweet farmgirl type, although those women hadn't been abused. No one had gotten a photo or video of him (he managed always to have a hat or hand or passing car or something in the way), and efforts to track him had been fruitless.

The Union's manager was afraid of two things: one, that the man was another member of the criminal class, which would cause its own problems, or two, that he was so powerfully placed in the city's power structure that he could literally escape their trackers anywhere, anytime, and have no questions asked as to why he needed to go to the roof, say, or use the private elevator, or have access to the members-only area of whatever building he happened to duck into.

The Union manager was rather frantic at this point, as ten of her girls had been attacked in some fashion, six most likely by the man in question. What she wanted from the Thieves' Guild was to borrow Roisin's powers. She wanted to set Roisin up as a high-priced new Exotic, with her unique hair, and have her use her powers to knock her prospective 'clients' out. Then, while they were unconscious, Roisin would use her powers further to see what sort of things the johns had in mind for her, and thereby find out which had it in him to savage a pretty girl. Even if she came up with a handful of potentials, it would be far less than what the Union could winnow out in a short time themselves. Without Roisin's help, it would take months at least; with her help, that time might be shortened to weeks.

They would do everything in their powers to make it safe for her, of course, but there was an element of danger nonetheless. Roisin could, of course, take care of herself, but anyone could be taken by surprise.

She thought it over, twisting her wedding band around her finger. "Let me talk it over with Remy," she said at last. "When do you need your answer by?"

"I don' t'ink Blythe is on a timetable at de present time," Jean-Luc said, and added dryly, "but I'd t'ink de sooner de better, if you're gonna help out."

She nodded. "I'll try to have an answer by tomorrow, then."

"All right." He lifted a finger from the desktop as she stood to leave, and she paused. "I'll just say de one t'ing: dis man, whoever he is, is an animal, an' needs to be stopped. But it _doesn't_ have to be by you. Y' hear what I'm saying?"

She smiled. "I do, _Pere. Merci."_

Remy, predictably, flipped out when she told him of the request. She was beginning to know him instinctively, though, and waited patiently, sipping her coffee after dinner while he raged, ranted, stormed about, and nearly broke a few things.

Then he collapsed into the chair opposite her. "So, what d' _you_ t'ink?"

"Actually," she said carefully, "I was thinking of taking the job." He bristled, and she quickly continued, "I have a condition, though—I want you to act as my pimp, or bodyguard, or whatever… just in case."

He thought about that, and scowled. "I don't like it."

"But it _is_ the best plan," she pointed out. "I feel like I don't give back enough to the Guild; this is something only _I_ can do, and with you there it'll be as safe as it's possible for something like this to be."

"But—"

"I really don't want any more of those girls hurt."

He moved to sit beside her and placed one hand on her cheek. "I don't want t' see _you_ hurt."

"What if I practiced using W-Wolverine's healing ability? Then it would be even less of a risk." She barely stumbled over the name, but the fact that she'd even suggested using something from her former life made Remy realize that this was, for whatever reason, _really_ important to her. He sighed, and capitulated.

"All right. But I go wit' you, an' I get veto power. If I say 'we get out,' we leave that minute."

"Deal," she said instantly, and leaned in 'til his arm wrapped around her. "Thanks for supporting me."

"You'd have done it anyway, even if I objected," he pointed out.

"Maybe. But I feel much better knowing you'll be there with me."

He snorted softly. "Y' t'ink I'm just gon' let every horny bastard in dis city have a look at my wife an' not pay fo' de privilege? Dey'd just better hope I don't catch any of them staring too long."

"Hmm. What's 'too long'?"

"'bout de same amount o' time it takes for me t' look at y' an' fall in love all over again."

She rolled her eyes. Even for Remy, that was a bad line. She decided to let it slide. "Huh. And how're you going to make them pay? For looking at me, I mean?"

"Hopefully not de same way_ I_ pay you," he muttered, skimming his lips along her neck.

She hummed in her throat. "Oh… And how is that, exactly?" She pulled him closer.

His hands got to work on clothes. "Let me remind you," he suggested. She took it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

In New York, Scott Summers blinked in disbelief at the image on the screen before him. He shook his head, and looked again. He was right. He was _right!_ The paper never even hit the print tray as he snatched the freshly-printed sheet and raced down the long hallways.

For once, he caught the world's most powerful telepath by surprise, as he burst through Xavier's office door, slapped the paper down on his desk, and pinned it in place with a triumphantly pointing finger.

"I'm _not_ crazy," he announced.

Charles Xavier examined the photo print-out carefully, and, grave-faced, leaned back to regard the young man, who was nearly vibrating with excitement. Scott hadn't looked this—alive—in a year. The slump had vanished from his shoulders, and his face looked less haggard than it had even at breakfast earlier. Xavier's steady regard didn't diminish Scott's confidence a bit, which was certainly a marked change from the second-guessing he'd become prone to.

The telepath's eyes strayed again to the smooth surface of the slightly blurry tabloid photo, whose caption read, "Playboy Prince Prefers Mystery Mutant?" Underneath, in smaller lettering, was a gossip-column blurb: "New Orleans' Guild co-heir R. LeBeau's latest conquest: an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a nameless-but-hot little package who's always at his side. She's impossible to interview, and only slightly less harder to photograph. Mob Mag brings you this first exclusive shot of the Cajun Casanova's current girl, about whom the Guild's kept curiously quiet. An insider confides that she _might_ be a mutant—which only tells us he's one step closer to complete female domination in New Orleans. Next up? Who knows? Anyone know where he can find an Amazon? We'd volunteer but we're all too short to qualify."

The photo was blurry and small. Fortunately, the magazine's editors had zoomed in and circled the person in question. She was leaving a building, and pulling her hood up, but the photographer had caught her before she quite finished hiding herself. One hand obscured most of her face, but an achingly familiar brow, eye, and shock of white hair stood out in a pale triangle against the surrounding darkness of her half-up hood and the night scene.

Yes, the photo wasn't clear. Yes, the article said she only _may_ be a mutant, which could be said of anyone. Yes, other girls had facial characteristics similar to Rogue's, and, _yes_, other girls could certainly have dyed their hair. But something about this tiny piece of photo—barely an inch an a half square—shouted "I know her!" to eyes looking for familiarity. Scott had been looking; Xavier hadn't.

Scott thought it was her.

_Xavier_ thought it was her.

It was enough. "Assemble the team," Professor X said quietly. We're going to New Orleans."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A week later, on Wednesday, the Blackbird touched down in an airfield at the outskirts of New Orleans. Wolverine reviewed the plan again. "Chuck is gonna try and pin down LeBeau by his power use, since we _know_ he's here." (He was cautious about believing the tiny photo.) "We'll track him down, Shadowcat and Nightcrawler to assist if he locks himself in somewhere or tries to make a getaway. We get him to tell us where she is, and then we go find her. _If_ she's here. We don't know when that photo was taken," he added defensively, in response to Scott's look.

He did _not_ want to see Cyclops' hopes brought up _again,_ only to see them crumble. He just might crumble with them. It was why Jean wasn't with them—even the _thought_ Rogue might still be alive had completely discombobulated her. Poor Jean—she'd finally begun to come to terms with Rouge's death, only to find she might now have to come to terms with her _life_ instead. Wolverine was proud of Scott for keeping it together this long. He hoped he'd last, whatever the outcome of this hunt.

"All clear? Are there any questions?"

"Um." Kitty bit her lip. "Well, what if that photo was taken, like, a week ago, and she's with him when we find one or the other of them?"

Wolverine frowned. "I can't think that she wouldn't have come home or called or something if she were able. If that's the case, _do not_ confront them unless it is _absolutely_ necessary. If she's being held, we don't want to tip them off that they need to watch her closely, or anything."

"Zo, in other vords, ve don't talk to either of zem unless ve can be zhure he or she is alone, yes?"

"Exactly. Any other questions? No? Good. Chuck, want to give us a direction?"

"Certainly," Professor X smiled serenely, despite the use of the despised nickname. He had more important things to concentrate on at the moment…

Everyone held their breath as he closed his eyes, and lifted his hands to his temples.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rose had been 'hooking' for about a week, and to her surprise, was enjoying herself. The first indication that this particular assignment might be entertaining came when the Whore's Union rep had showed up to do her costume and makeup. The woman had looked at her critically, and said, "I think we'll do something really out of character. Have you ever tried the Goth look?" She'd been mystified by Rose's hysterical response.

The major reason this was an enjoyable job was, of course, Remy, who hung about and looked threatening except when one of their suspects came by looking for a new Exotic to try. While he was hanging around, though, he made sure to make snarky comments about whatever short tight thing she was wearing that day.

So as to not arouse suspicion, she used the techniques perfected on Trask to literally fulfill the clients' every dream—inside their heads. They didn't know the difference, and she made sure to give them a memory of lying in bed half-asleep as 'that whore with the white streak in her hair' quietly left after collecting her money.

Remy laughed when she told him she was, in fact, taking money from their wallets after she knocked them out. "I've gotta keep up appearances, you know," she told him.

The other reason it was enjoyable was that their sex life suddenly increased. It was less bizarre than it sounded. An unexpected side-effect of Rose's reading the targets' minds when they were unconscious was that she picked up on their arousal as well as their specific intended actions. Most of the men were really there for a good time, not to beat up on a woman, and so most of them were, well, not thinking with the head above their shoulders, and she picked up on all the emotional content. She, in turn, reflected that right into Remy's empathy, so he ended 'riled up' as well…

Most afternoons ended in their bedroom, to put it mildly. Assuming they made it upstairs, of course. After one or two near-misses, they finally left word with the Guild guards that, at least until _le Rose Noire's_ current assignment was over, they should _not_ come running into their house at the sound of yells or groans, and that if they needed help, they'd make sure the Guild knew it.

_Thursday._ Roisin sighed. She hoped today would go better than yesterday; Wednesday had made Remy edgy—a feeling of being watched, he said—and as soon as she had left her 'client,' he grabbed her almost roughly, speaking sharply and loudly, playing the pissed-off pimp to cover his worry and provide an excuse for his haste in getting her out of there. He quickly smuggled her into a Guild bolt-hole, from which they used secret passages to exit. Annoyingly, he couldn't define his feelings any further than to say, "I felt itchy, like I had t' get y' out o' dere, _cherie. _Sorry."

She'd sighed. "It's all right. I'm concentrating on the 'customers;' it's your job to keep me safe. I probably wouldn't notice an _overt_ threat, let alone some whacko stalker or something."

"So I'm good for something, den?"

"A few things…" She smiled. "Speaking of being useful, what's for dinner?"

He'd laughed as well, and the mood had improved. She hoped it lasted through today, though the last couple of times he'd eeled by her he looked just as high-strung as yesterday.

He hadn't been so tightly wound, however, that he didn't let her keep her 'appointments' today; the current man in question lay dreaming on the motel bed while she riffled through his wallet. Quickly. _Very_ quickly—this guy had been very horny, and it had slammed into her like a wave: she wanted Remy, _now._

She was pretty sure he wouldn't mind helping her out.

He didn't, especially when she literally leapt at him the moment she got close enough. It took him by surprise, and he crushed her against a wall, falling against her before he caught his balance. Before he could move, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, telegraphing her need as clearly as if she'd shouted. He responded eagerly, breaking away long enough to suggest, "Dere's a much better place fo' dis." She nodded her agreement.

They nearly ran to the car; he practically threw her into the passenger seat—she didn't even remember him opening the door—and almost before his seat belt was buckled, he peeled away from the curb, tires squealing briefly before they caught and accelerated them towards home.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A block and a half away, Wolverine lifted startled eyes from his binoculars. "Damnit. I think she's pissed him off—she left that guy in the motel _way_ too soon, and it looks like LeBeau might…hurt her for it."

"Do you really think it's Rogue?" Kurt asked desperately. "You never got a good look yesterday…"

"I _think_ it is," he replied somewhat hesitantly, wondering if it _was_ Rogue, how the hell she was servicing her clients when she couldn't touch them. "I still haven't gotten a really good straight-on view of her. But I _know_ the guy is LeBeau. Either way, we need to talk to him _and_ stop him from doing something bad to that girl." He raised his voice. "Let's move out! Follow that blue car!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Ten minutes later, Remy had a brief second to be immensely happy they'd called off the Guild guard patrols temporarily; from the sound of it, anyone would think he was torturing his wife.

"Stop, stop! Remy! Stop!" She cried at him.

He rolled his face up from where he was tracing her Guild tattoo with his tongue. "Oh. Well, then," he said mischievously, sitting back from her entirely, only to laugh as he was violently seized and pulled on top of her by frantic hands.

"Don't stop _everything,_" she growled into his ear, wrapping her sweat-dampened limbs around him. "I have—no patience—for games today!" she got out between gasps. "Got me?"

"I t'ink—I'm beginnin' to," he got out, before focusing fully on the matters at hand, much to Roisin's delight. She squealed, and gasped, and demanded more.

Neither heard the vehicle slide to a stop outside. Fortunately, their security cameras did.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Wolverine began to feel panicked as they finally found the private drive the blue car had gone down. A trail of clothing led like breadcrumbs from the haphazardly-parked car, across the lawn, over the porch, in the open front door, and directly up the stairs.

His sensitive ears had caught cries of "Stop!" a few minutes ago; now the screams were loud enough that the other members of the team could hear them, too. They looked uncomfortable when they realized what the sound was.

"Rem—aahhh—!"

"Let's go—_now,_" Wolverine said, and they raced toward the house. When they reached the closed door from which the screams were coming more frantically now, he didn't even wait for Shadowcat to get the door open. Instead, he unsheathed his claws and took out the entire lock assembly.

The door flew open.

Instead of finding the expected murder scene, they were presented with the sight of a man's back, laced with scratches, laboring over a woman lying beneath him. With the door open, they could hear her litany of "Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…" interpolated into the louder shrieks.

His glazed countenance half-turned toward them as he snapped, "We tol' you not t'—Who are you?" his command broke off into a startled stutter, flattening himself against her. She made a pleased sound, then lifted her head to see what he was looking at.

A sound of inarticulate fury erupted from her kiss-swollen mouth, and she flung a hand in their direction. That second's worth of look confirmed that it was, in fact, Rogue, and she could _definitely _touch now. The foursome was astonished to find themselves shoved backward by an incredible force, followed by a furious shout: "_Get out_!"

They turned hastily to do so, only to be confronted with a group of very displeased Guild guards. "…an' come wit' us," the lead guard added firmly. He shouted in the general direction of the bedroom, "_L'Rose, l'diable,_ we'll have dem at de Seat."

The response was a resumption of the shrieking, which broke off in a wordless cry.

"Dey'll see you dere _later,_" another guard added, and asked, "Could y' _please_ come along peaceab—" With a yell, Cyclops leapt at him, to be met by a spray of a dark green mist erupting from a small canister in the guard's hand. Cyclops dropped like a stone.

The others gasped at his suddenly still form, and one of the men informed them, "He'll be all right, just knocked out. But unless y' want t' join him in sleep, you'll come along quietly."

"We will," Kitty said quietly. The others turned to her, surprised. "We can't fight all these people," she pointed out irritably, then added softly, "and I really want to talk to her."

At the reminder of what had brought them here, Kurt relaxed his aggressive stance as well. "Ja," he said. "I vant to talk to her as well."

Wolverine's face was dark. "I wanna find out where she's _been_ the past two years! How could she—"

"_Later_," the guard said firmly, and shuffled them toward the waiting vehicles.

Upstairs, Roisin leaned against Remy as they stood under the hot spray of the shower. "Do I _have_ to talk to them?" she groaned.

"You don't have to," Remy said quietly, rubbing her shoulders. "But I t'ink y' should."

"Why?"

"It's your past. _Dey're_ yo' past. If y' don't put it to rest, dey'll always have a hold over you. Best to make it a clean break, don't you t'ink?"

She sighed. "I suppose you're right. I _had_ hoped never to see any of them again." The last statement was bitter.

He shrugged. "Den dat's what we'll tell 'em. We'll see what dey have t' say fo' themselves, an' then never have to deal wit' 'em again. All right?"

She hesitated, sighed, and slid her arms around him. "It's not fair. You sound so reasonable."

"Hey, I'm good fo' somet'ing, right?" She smiled. "Remember, _chere,_ I'm with you. You're not gon' have to do this alone."

"Thanks. So—let's go get this over with."

"Right."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

SO SORRY for the ginormous delay in updating! Has anyone else -not- been receiving review alerts? I tried to email f f dot n e t about it, but didn't get ANY response. Not even saying my email was received... so I'm not sure what's going on. I'm not getting author, chapter, or review alerts, with the result that I thought no one reviewed my last chapter past the day I posted it. Obviously I know that's not the case now, but my email was very lonely. stupid f f dot n e t computers! If someone else is able to get through to support at fanfiction dot net please pass along that Alara is having serious issues! hopefully new chapters shouldn't be so long in coming. SORRY AGAIN! love you all!


	31. “A mighty fountain momently was forced:”

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 31: "A mighty fountain momently was forced:"

Jean-Luc LeBeau was in a rare mood: completely content. His Thieves were performing their various jobs flawlessly, nobody had murdered anybody else in at least a month, the treaty with the Assassins seemed to be working well, the Source had been quiet, _Tante _was in a good mood, and both of his sons were happily married (though, he admitted, he had his suspicions about the sudden engagement of Henri and Mercy, after they'd been content dating for so long. He wondered when they'd tell him they were expecting his grandchild, and if he should act surprised at the announcement or not). And to put the final bit of polish on the day, the bottle of bourbon he'd opened was at the utter peak of perfection, and glided down his throat like a blessing.

He _knew_ it couldn't last. True enough, a knock came at the door. At his response, Henry Walker stuck his head in the door, and, seeing Jean-Luc to be alone, crossed to the large desk, a missive clutched in one hand. Jean-Luc waved for him to wait, and read the hastily scrawled note. Intruders, captured on Guild Seat lands at _le Diable et la Rose's_. _This_ couldn't be good. He glanced at Henry. "Did y' read dis?"

"Nobody told me not to." The kid was unrepentant; Roisin and Remy certainly had chosen true when they'd sent him to New Orleans. "They've got the prisoners downstairs right now."

"Dey were caught inside Remy and Roisin's house?"

"Yeah…"

"Were Remy and Roisin there?"

"Yeah…"

"So, why are de prisoners prisoners, and not corpses?"

A confused look crossed Henry's face. "I dunno… I heard Marc say to tell you they were called ex-men, but I don't understand that. They just looked like people in weird costumes to me. He also said Roisin and Remy were 'very preoccupied' when they broke in, but I don't know how _they_ got taken by surprise." This apparent slip-up of his personal heroes had sidelined the boy, but Jean-Luc wasn't about to tell him _what_, exactly, had 'preoccupied' the pair; he well knew the rather amusing side effect Roisin's current assignment had on them. He didn't think Remy had gotten a full night's sleep in at least a week and a half.

"Hmm…" he said, mind running over different possibilities. The dossiers on the X-Men were rather impressive, and their powers formidable. "T'anks, Henry. You can go now." He started off. "An' _not_ t' go gawk at de prisoners."

"Awww…" The heavy door shut behind him.

Jean-Luc picked up the phone, and quickly dialed. "Remy? Are you an' Roisin all right? Good. Yes, I know who it was. Dress in style; we'll present a united front for our _Rose Noire._ Right. See you den." He hung up and rose to go change into a more subtly intimidating suit of clothes. Before he got a step away from the desk, the private line on his phone rang. He sighed, and answered it. "Yes? Hello, Marius. Now is really not—"

The assassin cut him off. "I've heard about what's going on over there, and I have some guests who are interested in what's going on as well."

"Why?"

"It involves the Roisin Dubh, doesn't it?"

"Yes…"

"Well, my guests were quite enamored of her when she visited…" Marius said, and explained. It transpired that the Russian, Indian, and Italian envoys to the Assassins' Guild were in town, had heard about the situation, and wanted to help.

Jean-Luc reflexively began to turn down the offer, then reconsidered. "Yes. Send them over."

"Belladonna and Julien are insisting on coming, too," Marius warned.

"Dat's all right." What were a few more Assassins?

"And I'm coming," the other man added firmly.

So much for his contented afternoon.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

After they left the shower, they dressed. Well, Remy dressed. For Roisin, it was more like arming herself. First to go on were her wedding and engagement rings, which she'd removed for the sting on the still-unknown abuser of the whores. Next were some of the most casually expensive clothes she owned, and her Guild shawl tossed around her throat. Finally, she opened the gun safe in their room, and removed the small snub nose revolver 'Donna had given her as an engagement gift, and paired it with the ankle dagger Mercy'd gifted her with upon her return from overseas. The gun went at the small of her back, where it was hidden by the swing of her blouse, and the dagger onto her right ankle.

Remy glanced over from where he was examining the shattered doorframe, frowning as he fingered the smooth gouges in the wood, wondering how much those same claws might hurt going through flesh. "Y' t'ink y're gon' need those?"

She paused for a second, and continued spinning the lock on the safe back into place. "I don't know," she answered quietly. "Maybe. Probably not. But.. I don't know." She shrugged minutely. "They make me feel better," she admitted.

He crossed to her as she rose and pulled her to him. "It'll be all right," he assured her. "We can get 'em t' leave, and continue on as we have been, or, if y' want, get t'eir info t' contact 'em later… if y' want."

He was trying so hard. "I don't know what I want, Remy," she sighed. "Seeing them again, after so long…it's hard."

He snorted softly. "Well, I t'ink dat short guy's eyes 'bout damn near rolled out o' his head when he walked in on us."

She laughed shortly, humorlessly. "Yeah. Helluva way to say 'hello.'"

"You're telling me. I'm de one whose ass dey were looking at."

"They were _not_ looking at your ass. Well, any more than they could help. Did you see how quickly they backed out?" she snickered.

"Well, you were helping 'em. Dat was impressive; you've come a long way wit' usin' all of dose powers o' yours."

"They're just lucky I happened to grab Jean's powers and not Storm's, otherwise they'd have been struck by lightning instead of shoved around."

"We're lucky de guards showed up an' kept 'em from falling down de stairs. Dat would've been awkward."

"Like the rest of this afternoon _hasn't_ been awkward?" she countered. "But, yeah, I'm glad the perimeter guards were still watching." She sighed, and checked that her weapons were secure. "All right. Let's go get this over with."

Remy could sense her worry and fear, though, and insisted on driving the short distance to the Guild seat. She didn't argue, instead huddling in the passenger seat staring blankly out the window. When they arrived, they made their way to Jean-Luc's office through conspicuously empty hallways. It took Roisin a moment to notice, a sure sign of her preoccupation with the coming confrontation.

"Where is everyone?"

"Standard procedure when someone's imprisoned here instead o' at a safe house or blockhouse." He told her. "It's t' make sure as few people are identified in case someone ever escapes. Not that anyone ever has," he added, and opened the door to his father's office.

To their surprise, not only were Jean-Luc, Mercy, Henri, and Tante there, but Belladonna, Julien, and Marius Bordreaux occupied the room as well. As they cleared the doorway, still more people caught their eye: some of the overseas Assassins lounged against the near wall. One grinned and waved. The English that came from his mouth was tinged with Italian accents, but otherwise sounded like a New Yorker's voice. "I knew I liked you, Roisin Dubh. You keep things interesting. I mean, invaded by mutants? That's _awesome_."

She shook her head. "Hello, Andre. I knew your sense of the ridiculous was very keen, but you didn't need to travel halfway around the world to prove it."

His grin spread. "I know. And congratulations on your wedding, by the way. We were in town anyway—really—and as soon as we heard about your visitors, we wanted to help."

"Even though I'm a Thief?"

"With a mindset very close to the Assassins'," Marius reminded her, and crossed the room to give her a brief, surprising hug. "We're with you."

"We all are," Jean-Luc reminded her, and gestured for them to join the rest behind the desk. It was a show of solidarity and support, she realized, on her behalf, and was warmed by the attention as she and Remy positioned themselves amongst the group.

"Are y' ready?"  
She took Remy's hand in hers. "Yes."

"Good." He picked up the phone on the desk. "Bring in de prisoners."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The X-men shuffled in, closely hemmed in by obviously armed Guild guards. Logan glared at his escort, Scott stood even more stiffly straight, and Kurt and Kitty looked, by turns, nervous and sheepish. Their expressions all changed when they took in the crowd of grim faces greeting them.

As one, their eyes swept over the crowd once, then abruptly zeroed in on Roisin.

"It _is_ you!" Kurt yelped, _bamf_'d to her excitedly, and reached out to give her a hug. He froze a second later, though, at the gun Remy instantly pressed against his neck—he'd snatched it from the holster at Roisin's back.

Jean-Luc looked over unconcernedly, and remarked, "I'd recommend you don't make any hasty moves, 'specially towards _la Rose Noire._ _Le Diable_ gets a little… overprotective, sometimes. Wouldn't want anybody to be hurt."

Kurt lifted his hands slowly, and backed towards the X-men.

"Good. Welcome to de T'ieves' Guild. Now, fo' some rules o' conduct. Y' don' wan' t' be using your powers, or abilities, or whatever, against any o' my people, even as a joke—we're a little touchy about t'ings like that, as Remy just demonstrated. Next: We know y' came t' speak to our Roisin Dubh. If she wants to talk t' you, fine. If she doesn't want t' talk to you, dat's also fine." At this, Remy leaned against her unobtrusively.

His father continued, "Y'll be given an opportunity t' speak your piece to her, but she's de one decides whether you go on from there, or leave and never come back. Third, we're going to keep working during your stay here, however short dat may be. We don't care what you t'ink 'bout what we do, so don't even bother saying anything about it. And _do not interfere wit' our jobs._"

It _might _have been Roisin's imagination that last was addressed to Scott.

Jean-Luc continued, "On de ot'er hand, y' can help if you want to, but ask first." She was pretty sure that was for Kurt, who brightened at the statement.

"Finally—" A soft knock came at the door. "_Entrez-vous." _There was a slight pause, then, to Roisin's surprise, Professor X wheeled in the door, escorted by two more guards.

"Ah. Good. Professor Charles Xavier, I presume? Good. You're just in time t' hear de most important part o' our introduction. Y' don't want t' try an' grab Roisin and run, or even just run, fo' dat matter, though I know you've got practice. We can find you wherever you go. And our associates here will kill you if necessary to protect our own."

At this Marius tipped his head sardonically in the group's direction. "Name's Bordreaux. Head o' de Assassins' Guild. Don't mess wit' Roisin; we like her."

"And you've damaged her enough in the past," Mercy put in acidly.

Professor X looked strained, and without taking his eyes off of Roisin, said, "May we please dispense with the threats and merely _talk_ with her? We will endeavor not to upset or…injure her further."

Jean-Luc looked at his daughter-in-law's face, which was solemn, then irritated, then smoothed back into solemnity. He suspected Remy was helping her keep hold of her temper. "Roisin Dubh?" he asked softly.

She paused, gripped Remy's hand more firmly, and said, "Yes. We can talk. We won't need guards." Belladonna started to protest, but Rose cut her off, speaking now in French. "If they get out of line, _I_ will take care of them."

"Jus' leave me a piece if dey do," the Assassin muttered, but nodded her acquiescence. "I'll be close by if y' need me."

"T'anks." Roisin smiled at her, then looked toward Jean-Luc. "_Pere? _May we use the front parlor?"

His lips quirked; that room was one of the most heavily armored, as well as being riddled with surveillance devices. He and the rest of the family would be able to closely monitor everything that went on in the room. "Sure. Try not t' break de furniture; dey're antiques."

"Will do," Remy acknowledged, and nodded at the guards to herd the small group toward the parlor. They did so. A few minutes later, the door locked behind the departing guards, and the five X-men faced the two Thieves across an ornate coffee table.

Silence held for a few minutes. The x-men watched the pair, especially Roisin, anxiously; she studied them coolly in turn.

Professor X looked nearly the same as when she'd last seen him over two years ago; a few of the creases in his face seemed deeper, but otherwise he seemed unchanged, serene as always. She sensed him trying to reach out to her mind, and firmly raised telepathic shields against him, ignoring the speculative look that crossed his face.

Logan mostly occupied himself with glaring in Remy's general direction, occasionally indulging in a disbelieving look at Roisin, as though he couldn't believe she were actually there. The specificity of his glances was impressive, as she and Remy sat closely together, thighs pressed against each other and hands clasped tightly, yet there was no doubt about which look was meant for whom.

Scott appeared to still be a bit woozy from the dose of stun gas he'd received, yet still fidgeted anxiously, his hands chasing each other around in his lap. Nervousness was not a trait she'd formerly associated with the normally uptight leader.

Kitty seemed to be fighting a smile that threatened to overtake her face despite her efforts to stifle it. Roisin borrowed a bit of Remy's empathy and skimmed the surface of her emotions: hope battled with despair primarily—despair about what?—followed by the expected run through curiosity about Remy, excitement at seeing her old friend, fear of the Guild members outside the door… No, Kitty hadn't changed too much.

Kurt was unexpectedly quiet, after his initial exuberance, and he did not look at her. It took her a moment to realize he was praying, about what she couldn't say, but he was the only one who wasn't _staring _at her, and she felt a surge of warmth toward him for it.

"Where is Jean?" She heard herself ask unexpectedly. "And Storm and Beast?"

Her voice in the quiet room was a shock.

Scott answered. "Jean… Well… she took things, uh, badly, and it was healthier for her to remain behind for this trip."

Remy caught a surge of hurt and annoyance (mostly annoyance) from Roisin, and tightened his grip on her hand. Her voice was resigned when she answered. "So she never got over her dislike of me, then? Should've realized that not even distance could make that heart grow fonder."

Scott bristled, then wilted. "No," he said, quietly. "No, Rogue."

"It's _Roisin,_" they corrected in unison.

"Rog—Roisin," Logan hastily corrected himself, leaning forward. "You've got to understand—until an hour ago, we thought you were—were—_dead_. And Jean thought she was somehow responsible for it; she… she…"

"She vent totally nuts, ja?" Kurt interjected, when Wolverine stumbled. "And so did ve all, thinking you vere gone. Why didn't you _tell_ us you vere alive?" Pain and accusation mingled in the question.

Roisin inhaled sharply at the abrupt question, looking down. The X-men watched her warily, only now remembering that the last time she'd been emotionally traumatized, she'd destroyed half the town. Remy picked up on the trend of their feelings, and glared at them.

When she raised her face, though, there was no anger or insanity there, only a deep sadness and the echoes of a loneliness that she hadn't felt for over two years.

"Why," she asked softly, "why did you leave me in that terrible place?" She took a shaky breath, and continued, "After we escaped, we were put into the Witness Protection Program, so we—I—_couldn't_ call you. And I didn't want to." She admitted. "Why would I want to reassure the people who left me to _die_ in that maniac's hellhole? Why would I want to go back to them, only to be abandoned again? I wasn't trusted, or welcomed, there."

Three of the five sitting across from them started to protest. Roisin was interested to note that it was Scott and the professor who were honest enough with themselves—and with her—to admit they hadn't trusted her after her loss of control over her powers.

"I had a chance at another beginning, when we got out of there. And I took it. I _had _to. I—" her throat closed over and she was suddenly blinking back tears. "Trask—he—you _can't _understand what it was like, there." She felt Remy's arm circle her shoulder, and sensed his own emotions roiling, as hers were, at the memory of their imprisonment.

The professor leaned forward in his wheelchair. "Rog—Roisin," he corrected himself, "that is why we are here. To understand. Please."

"Stripes," Logan added his plea, "We've been in hell these last couple of years. At least let us go with an explanation."

"I-I can't-" her voice broke.

"…Can you at least _try?"_ the soft question came from Kurt, who still studied his clasped hands. He continued quietly, "I have been asking _Gott_ for two years what great sin I am atoning for, zat I had to watch one of my best friends kidnapped and killed and—and—." He swallowed heavily. "I have been asking Him also _vhy_ I could do nothing about it, when I have zhe power to move between dimensions, but not to save a life."

He laughed bitterly, briefly, the sound coming from his throat utterly alien to Roisin; Remy felt her shudder slightly at the sound.

"And people at school ask vhy am I not zhe wild crazy dude anymore. Or zhey ask, vhy am I not over it yet, and even though zhey von't understand everything I _try_ to explain. And they understand a little, usually." He finally lifted seeping eyes in her direction, though he still didn't look directly at her. "Please help _me _understand at least a little."

Roisin caught her breath sharply. Then she exhaled slowly. He was right; it was a fair request. "All right," she said, "I'll try."

Remy added, squeezing her shoulder, "_We'll_ try."

There was a brief silence, and then Roisin started to speak.

"When we got out of the lab, we weren't the same people who went in, really. Having something like—what happened to us—in your life, it _changes_ you. You don't understand what it is, to have to learn when to struggle, and when to just give in and do what they want, just to survive. It's a hard thing to learn. Mostly you learn through—fear.

"Fear—" she barely breathed the word, gasping at its sudden intensity—"Fear isn't just an emotion you go through, it's something that stays with you. It's a living memory. When you live in fear, fear becomes a thing you can almost grab hold of. Terror—" she shook her head, lip curling in self-disdain—"_that_, I could have withstood more easily. Terror rushes through, burns quickly, and goes away. Terror can't be sustained; you either die of it, or survive through it, like you do a fire."

She felt her expression fall into blankness as she recited, and her breath eased; Remy was helping her, blocking the emotions welling up within her so she could speak. She squeezed his hand gratefully and continued.

"See, terror doesn't last. Fear—fear is like fog; it sticks with you, it surrounds you, you breathe it in and it becomes part of you. You can't escape it. Sure, you can try—I did try— but you just exhaust yourself, and _it doesn't go away_."

She paused, and was careful not to look at anyone as she spoke. "When I was with you all, I was afraid of my powers, and I lived with a constant fear that I'd hurt someone. I even had to make sure I didn't walk too closely to others on the street in case I tripped, or something." She snorted softly. "You all just thought I was being antisocial.

"Then I lost control, and I learned that you can have many fears at once: I added the fear of always being alone, and the fear of never finding a friend who _understood_ me, and the fear that my teammates would one day be forced to kill me to keep me from hurting others.

"I added your fears: that I _was_ uncontrollable, and that there was no hope for me, that I was worse than useless—I was a liability and a burden.

"And then Trask took me.

"I was afraid I would never be rescued, and the longer I was there, the greater that fear grew. I learned to be afraid of the sound of a cart's wheels squeaking, and the smell of antiseptic solution. I learned to be afraid of pain and afraid of pleasure, because both drove me to do—terrible things."

Here she had to stop and bury her face in Remy's shoulder for a moment, despite his deflection of most of her emotions. Her face was tense with unshed tears when she turned back after a few seconds. "I absorbed more than a _hundred people_, and I became afraid of _improving _my control, because every millisecond of control I gained, I was one step closer to giving them what they wanted—control over my powers."

"When I was with Trask, fear was my whole world, and I realized how much fear I'd already been living in." _With you,_ she did not add aloud, but the X-men heard it anyway.

After a moment, Kitty tentatively broke the silence. "So…what happened?"

Roisin's involuntary smile startled them, sudden as it was. They abruptly had a whole new understanding of the phrase, "The smile lit up her face"; the joy radiating from Roisin was nearly palpable.

"What happened? Remy happened. It's why I'm willing to do _anything,_ absolutely _anything_ Remy asks of me—he's given me so much." Her voice was a caress on his name. Unconsciously, he smiled slightly at that, as she continued speaking.

"He helped me get conscious control over my powers, and I finally knew what it was to _touch_, _without fear_, without guilt, and none of you can really understand how huge a change that is. You can't understand it inside, like I do. Like Remy does, because it's something he had to learn himself, only instead of being careful about people, he had to be careful about objects. That in a lot of ways is harder, because it's much easier to avoid people than it is to avoid _things._

"But he knew what I was going through all of those years my powers weren't under control. He knew what I went through under Trask. He lived my fears with me as Trask hunted us. He knew the fear of always being alone. He knew the fear of being a liability to his family. He helped me through all of my fears—"

"And you did de same fo' me," he interjected quietly.

"—and became my closest friend." She lifted her face and looked at them squarely for the first time since she'd started speaking; they saw resolution and steadfastness in her face. "I won't say I'm fearless, but I have _control _over my fears; they no longer own me. Some of it is thanks to myself, but most of it is thanks to Remy."

"An' I'd say most o' my self-control comes from you," he returned with a kiss, "So we're still even."

They looked into each other's faces for a long moment, until a strained cough came from Logan's direction. "So, er, Roisin—where'd that name come from, anyway?" he interrupted himself. The question burst out in the middle of another, but it broke the tension in the air; everyone relaxed a little, with such an unserious question in the middle of a serious discussion.

"Oh, the FBI," she replied casually, knowing how much Logan _loved_ alphabet agencies.

"The—_what?_ How?"

"Y' see, _homme_," Remy began, to save Roisin still _more_ talking, "When y' laser boy dere knocked in de ceiling—" He nodded at Scott, and felt Roisin snicker beside him—"de aut'orities…eh, noticed. An'—"

They all turned as a knock came at the door. "_Entrez-vous,_" Roisin called out.

Henry Walker's head poked around the door, his eyes wide. "'M sorry, _Rose Noire,_ _Le Diable,_ but you're needed. It's Blythe," he added, naming the contact person for the Whore's Guild situation.

She muttered a curse under her breath and rose. "You'll have t' excuse us, duty calls," she said dryly to the X-men. "Hopefully dis won't take long."

"Can ve come along?" This eager question came, of course, from Kurt.

A thoughtful look passed over Roisin's face, and she fired a question in French at Remy, who replied quickly, a reckless look on his face. She frowned, and said something else, he replied again, and reached out to give her a half-hug, and muttered something in her ear. She choked back a laugh, and waved generally in the X-Men's direction.

"Whoever wants to come, can, but y've got t' stay out of our business."

"But that Jean-Luc guy said we could help out!" Kitty protested.

A shrug. "That's up t' him, den. Come if you're coming; we don't have time to stand here and debate it." She turned, and abruptly left the room, Remy fast on her heels, gesturing for the X-men to follow.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Reviews, comments, emails appreciated! Email is now AlaraCelt (no underscore) AT .

Thanks to everyone who've sent encouraging emails or comments—and I apologise that this took so long to get out. But—I'm posting two chapters. Am I forgiven? Enjoy! And, as aways, please review and let me know what you think. Sla'n! 2/9/09.


	32. “As if this earth in fast thick pants we

WARNING: Explicit language in this part, though only briefly.

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 32: "As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,"

They all came, and were soon assembled in a smallish room with an array of small monitors covering one wall. Roisin and Jean-Luc had an intense, brief discussion; then she nodded and left the room, Mercy hurrying after her.

Logan made as if to follow them, and turned back, an irritated look on his face. "Where's she going _now?"_ he demanded. "What could possibly be more important than talking with her family who she hasn't seen in two and a half years?"

Remy opened his mouth to answer, an angry look on his face, but Henri cut in before he could speak. "Why don't you jus' sit back, watch, an' learn, _homme?"_ he suggested. "_Le Rose Noire_ does good work f' us, an' her current assignment is particularly important. You jus' sit dere an' don't interfere. Remy, y' need t' go get ready fo' de customer."

Remy looked as though he'd still like to say something to Logan—probably something disruptive, given his expression—and Jean-Luc decided they'd had quite enough high tempers this afternoon. "Remy." He spoke quietly, but instantly had his son's attention. "Go. Y'll feel better if yo' wit' her, an' we certainly aren't letting Roisin go to de street alone. Blythe thinks dis is de one we've been looking for."

His mouth still twisted in a frown, Remy nodded shortly and left. A few moments later, he and Roisin re-entered the room, much changed. Mercy was a moment behind them, zipping a small makeup bag closed.

He now wore a suit that was just a shade too loud, a tie a little too obnoxious, and his hair was slicked back in a self-conscious way. Ridiculously heavy rings adorned most of his fingers, an ostentatious watch dragged down one arm, and instead of walking, he oozed.

Roisin was a good match for him; her earrings were large and heavy—they hung nearly to her shoulders—the skirt she currently wore would instantly cause at least four laws to be broken if she did any more than walk in it in public, her heels added half a foot of height, her shirt was artfully cropped, and her makeup was just overdone—and Goth.

It was an odd combination for the X-men, to see a made-up face so similar to the one they remembered, but done for such a different purpose, and with such different clothes.

Mercy darted up to finish fine lines at the corner of Roisin's eyes, making them look long-lashed, exotic, and sultry. Roisin was the epitome of upper-class hookerdom—clearly not up to the class of an 'escort', but equally clearly, she was no ten-dollar whore.

She ignored the dropped jaws and glares from her former teammates, and asked Jean-Luc, "So. Where's de customer, _Pere?_"

"Blythe has him in a room at de corner of Fifth and Montrose; I've had a car brought around fo' Remy t' take you there. He's askin' t' see de new Exotic. Maybe he's just curious, o' maybe he's de high-roller we want. In any case, I don't want you spending a lot o' time on dis one, all right?"

Given their expressions, Rogue realized that her former family had no idea what they were really talking about—they thought the Guild really had pimped her out. Well, that was fine; _they_ weren't privy to Guild secrets, and it would do the Guild no good to have outsiders know they did some of their illegal activities for good causes.

In a sudden moment of spite, since the X-men seemed all too willing to believe her a whore, she replied glibly, "O' course, _Pere_. I'll do him quickly." She emphasized 'do' very slightly; Jean-Luc didn't notice, but the X-men did.

"An' Remy goes wit' you."

Kitty looked startled, then scandalized. Roisin nearly snickered. "O' course."

Remy, for his part, slid a hand down the back of the brief skirt and pressed her to him, kissing her 'in pimp persona'—sloppily, and with lots of tongue. "Jus' 'member who y' b'long to, _cherie," _he said sternly, with the barest flicker of a wink. He'd noticed the X-men's reactions, and could sense their feelings and Roisin's; he agreed that they didn't deserve to get off easy with an explanation.

Jean-Luc merely raised an eyebrow at their antics, not knowing their source but unwilling to comment.

Mercy sighed, "Remy, you've ruined her lipstick; no john wants a girl who's _obviously_ used. I've told you before, her makeup has to be good when she goes in to them. Do whatever you want later, but Roisin's job is easier when the guys are relaxed when they meet with her." She dug in the bag at her side and pulled out a tube of lipstick and some face powder.

Her off-hand, irritated admonishment spurred a startled question from Scott. "Mercy—do you, er—do the same work that Ro—uh—Roisin does?" Next to Roisin, Mercy was looking particularly wholesome and sweet as she bent over the other girl's face.

"Oh, heck, no," the girl said absently, as she reapplied Roisin's lipstick. "She's got the best skills for this assignment. There's no way I could do what she does, not that Henri would let me, anyway. Remy shares so much better than he does," she mock-pouted at Henri, who rolled his eyes.

"Yes, we all know Remy outshines me in so many ways," he commented drolly.

Remy looked smug. "So long as y' remember dat, _frere_."

Mercy rolled her eyes at the both of them and continued, "Anyway, for this assignment, I'm really more support staff. I do more of the technical work for the Guild; Roisin is more hands-on, you might say."

Roisin stifled a laugh; Mercy couldn't be inadvertently scandalizing the X-men more if she tried, and her unrehearsed, off-hand manner only emphasized how commonplace she considered the topic of 'What Roisin Does For The Guild' was.

Roisin didn't feel like enlightening the X-men to what was _really_ going on just yet; perhaps it was mean and petty of her, but who were _they_ to come to her home and judge how she was making a living? Particularly after leaving her to whatever fate would have been in store for her if she and Remy hadn't managed to escape—she very might well have been a hooker by this time, or worse.

Apparently she hadn't let go of as much anger as she'd thought.

From the look on his face, neither had Remy, so she linked her arm through his when Mercy released her. "C'mon, Rem, let's not keep my client waiting."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

As they pulled up to the place where Blythe had situated the would-be john, Remy commented, "Y' embarrassed dem all, _cherie." _His voice was carefully neutral, though the words were faintly reproving.

She snorted. "So what? They think I'm a whore."

"_Non, _dey t'ink y've been seduced into doin' whatever I say. They don't think you'd ever _willingly_ be a whore, under normal circumstances, which dese clearly aren't."

"That's _so_ much better. Instead of a whore, I'm a mindless loser abuser-addicted bimbo."

"Roisin…"

She chopped a hand through the air. "Don't. Do _not_ stick up for them and make excuses for them. The world's most powerful telepath, the world's smartest scientist, and the world's best hunter and tracker were not bamboozled by the witness protection program's announcement of my supposed death. Maybe it wasn't a conscious decision, but on some level, they must have wanted to give up the rescue attempts, or how could they have just _left_ me there?"

"I don't know." He said quietly. "But you've got to give 'em de _chance_ to explain."

She sighed, knowing he was right. She turned to him. "You won't leave me, _amour_?"

"Never." He leaned over and held her a moment, then sat back. "Now, t'ough, is not de time to be talkin' 'bout dis." He nodded at the building in front of them. "Y' ready?" She nodded.

He punched a button on his cell phone. "Pere? Everyt'in' in place?"

Back at the Guild Seat, Jean-Luc examined the various video feeds of the room where the john waited impatiently, Blythe, standing nervously outside the door, the car Remy and Roisin sat in on the street outside. "Clear view here. Go when you're ready—"

On one screen, the john jerked the door open, and roughly grabbed Blythe. He dragged her into the room. In the car outside the building, Roisin and Remy heard her shout.

"We're goin' now, _Pere_," Remy said hastily, and snapped the phone closed.

It took them less than a minute to get to the door. Roisin tried it; it was locked. Remy pulled lockpicks from a sleeve, and bent to open the door. It swung open seconds later, unnoticed by the man inside.

Remy ducked out of sight around the doorframe as Roisin, in full 'hooker mode,' slunk inside the room.

The john was cocked to punch Blythe in the face when a sultry voice cooed, "Looking' fo' me, sugah?"

He turned, saw her, and dropped Blythe, which was more than Roisin had hoped for. The other woman left as unobtrusively as possible, carefully not-quite-closing the door behind her.

The man—who was _huge—_lumbered over to her. She draped her arms lazily around his neck, trying to get her fingertips against some bare skin. Irritatingly, he was wearing one of those stiffly-starched, ironed, collared button down shirts and blue not-quite-dress pants.

Maybe he was a renegade Jehovah's Witness? Come to convert the heathen? Well, one way to find out.

"How do ya like ta do this, honey?" She asked him, looking up at him through heavily mascara'd lashes. Her accent was deliberately intensified; any thicker and she'd swallow her tongue.

She opened her borrowed telepathy a little, but his intentions toward her were still too vague to be sure he was the vicious beast they were after. While he had obviously been ready to hit Blythe, it wasn't, unfortunately, unique enough to peg him as the freak who'd savaged the other girls. Some guys just seemed to like slapping the girls a little; those, however, didn't use knives, and certainly didn't put the girls in the hospital. She _had_ to get at his skin.

Damnit. She'd have to draw this out 'til she could get an idea of his goal with her—pain? Pleasure? Or—she mentally shrugged—proselytism? Maybe he _was_ some fundamentalist; didn't some of them get physical, sometimes? "Ya wanna go slow—_ow!"_

He unexpectedly lifted one hand and pulled at her hair—no, she realized an instant later, pulled at her _white_ hair, peering at its roots intently. Next he pushed her away slightly, looking closely at her face.

"Oh," he said, "You _are _her."

Wordlessly she raised her eyebrows in question.

"The filthy whore who'll do _anything_." His eyes shone unpleasantly.

Okay, so that _was _the persona she'd purposefully built up, but the derisive words and tone still stung a bit.

She shrugged demurely, one side of her top 'accidentally' falling off her shoulder. "I'll fulfill your wildest dreams, honey. That's what I sell."

She was hoping he'd take the invitation and grab her shoulder, or take his own shirt off; anything, so long as she could get some skin against his, see if he was the whacko or not, and knock him out.

Instead of grabbing her shoulders, or arms, or waist—all of which were tantalizingly bare—he scooped his hands to her derriere, squeezing slightly through the thin material of the brief skirt.

Inside she sighed disgustedly. He _would_ be an ass man.

Well, he definitely wasn't here to convert her, then. She smiled flirtatiously up at him, and lifted her hands to his shirt collar. "C'mon, hon, let's get you out o' these heavy… itchy… clothes…"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Back at the Guild Seat, Wolverine bit off a curse and thrust himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against. "How can you claim to care about her, and let her go do…_that_?" He growled, flinging a hand at the monitors. "And worse, _watch her_ with them?"

Jean-Luc exchanged an amused look with Henri. "Calm down, _mon ami._ Roisin will come to no harm."

"That guy was ready to punch the other girl!" Kurt broke in, clearly upset. "What if he tries to hit her?"

Henri shrugged. "She'll take care o' him. Or Remy will."

"Like, forget about him hitting her. She's really okay with—with—_sleeping_ with these guys? What'd you all _do_ to her to make her okay with that?!" Kitty broke in indignantly.

Surprised looks chased around the room. _"Sleeping_ with them? Whoever said she was _sleeping_ with them?" Jean-Luc asked, astonished. Did they really think _he_ would send that girl in to share herself with strangers?

Well, obviously they did.

"Don't be so damn literal. What the hell _else_ is she—" Logan began belligerently, but was cut off as Henri, watching the monitors, suddenly barked into a microphone, "Remy! Get in there now."

Everyone craned their necks anxiously to see what it was he was watching. To their universal horror, the john appeared to have Roisin pinned against a wall; the horrified expression on her face was clear over his meaty shoulder. Remy burst in the door, cards trailing sparks in his hands and an implacable expression on his face. There was a flash, and the screen went dark.

Henri cursed, and bent over the control panel, trying to re-establish connection.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Damnit, _Roisin thought, as her back impacted the wall in a burst of pain. _I should've known better than to take my eyes off of his face for even a second…_

When she'd raised her hands to his shirt collar, she certainly hadn't expected the damn thing to be as starched as it looked. An ugly look came into his eyes as she struggled with the buttons. Finally, exasperated and unable to maintain his weird stare any longer, she'd dropped her eyes to the small buttons, determined to get them open and her hands on his skin. She broke eye contact for only a second, but it was enough.

In that second's time, just as the button was slipping free, she found her wrists pressed in a crushing grip, and her body was flung against the wall. All the air left her body in a painful _whoosh_, and for a moment, breathing became something that required thought and concentration.

Ow, ow, ow. I think that was a wall stud.

He was babbling manically into her ear, as he leaned his considerable weight against her: "…stupid idiot cocksucking money-grubbing whore you don't want to let a guy have any fun can't handle a little slap now and then you deserve what you're gonna get you asked for it gonna watch you bleed for me and beg goddamn twelve years down the drain and you never fucking knew and it never bothered you but then you find out and now it's suddenly a problem you damn whore I'm gonna break every one of your damn grabby fingers and then I'm gonna break your damn face and we'll see how much you can yell then hooker and you're no saint I'll bet you were doing every damn guy on the block and…"

She tried to keep still but couldn't repress the shudder that ran through her. It broke the stream of babbling. He thrust his groin against her leg, focused on her (instead of whomever he'd been talking to) and jeered, "Yeah, I knew you couldn't resist me. You _want_ it. You whores all want to be hurt. I'm gonna tear you apart, girlie—_you're_ a special one. Your blood's gonna run—"

An explosion interrupted him. Roisin sagged in relief: Remy was standing a few feet behind the guy, a card sparking in his hands. His expression was stony as he ordered, "Let de girl go. Now."

"Who're _you_?" the man asked, startled, as he jerked around to face Remy, placing Roisin between himself and the Cajun.

"Call me a concerned party. Let her go."

"I paid for her, you can wait your t—" his voice broke off as he choked; Roisin had taken advantage of his focus on Remy, and simply kneed him as hard as she could in the groin. He collapsed silently to the ground, unable even to gasp.

"Ya haven't paid yet, but you will," she informed him, and slapped a bare hand against his face. He stiffened in reaction and his eyes rolled grotesquely back in his head. Her mouth twisted in disgust at the information she was receiving, then tightened resolutely. She held on.

Remy watched her carefully. Wasn't she holding on longer than usual? He sensed anger radiating from her, and fear quickly fading to nothingness from the john.

When the john's face went gray, he knew it was too long.

"Roisin," he said softly. "_Chere,_ y've got t' let go."

She jerked a shoulder angrily, and kept one hand on his face. "Why? You wouldn't believe how sick this guy is. He _deserves_ to be drained."

"Dat may be so," he agreed, "But shouldn't Blythe an' de Whores' Union decide dat?"

She sighed, and reluctantly released the man. "I suppose. Bastard." She sat back on her heels tiredly. He drew her to her feet and hugged her to him for a moment. "B'sides," he muttered into her ear, "If he's as bad as you say, I don't want him in yo' pretty head permanently."

She made a wry face. "Good point."

His cell phone started ringing; he flipped it open. "Remy, is everyt'in' all right? Is Roisin all right?" his father's voice came through, concerned.

"Everything's ok, _pere,_ an' Roisin's just fine." He replied. Roisin indicated she wanted to talk, and he passed the phone over.

"_Pere,_ I'm fine. This is definitely the guy Blythe was looking for."

"Good. Tell her, wait 'til de Union's enforcers get dere, an' den come home. Y've got some panicked guests here."

"Oh, geez. Why are they panicked?"

A hint of laughter entered Jean-Luc's voice. "First, de camera shorted out when Remy blew up one of his cards, and second, dey're convinced we're whoring you out."

She sputtered indignantly. "Still? Didn't you tell them it was a sting operation?"

"Dey don't believe me."

She sighed heavily. "God. Do I have to come home?"

He laughed. "Yes, an' dis is _le roi_ tellin' you you do."

"All right, we'll see you in a while." She flipped the phone closed. "Damnit."

"What?" Remy re-entered the room; he'd been telling Blythe about their success.

"Your _pere_ just pulled rank and says I can't dump the X-men on him. Apparently they're convinced I really _am_ a whore. I'd hoped that when they thought it over, or were told otherwise, they'd realize there's just about no way I could ever do—_that_."

"So our day isn't over yet?"

"Apparently not."

"Maybe by de time we get back, someone will have convinced dem of the truth."

"You think so?"

"Not really. We can hope, though, can't we?"

She rolled her eyes at him, smiling, and said, "Sure. There's always hope."

"Yeah, like I hope dat Wolverine guy doesn't punch me. He wants to. I'm pretty sure it'd hurt."

"Don't worry, I'll protect you."

He laughed then, and as the Whore's Union's muscle-bound enforcers entered to retrieve the john, replied, "I'm sure you will. I'll hide behind you when we go in. T'ink dat'd work?"

She tipped her head back to look pointedly up at him, a head taller than herself. "I don't think so, Remy, but you're welcome to try."

"I will. –All right, enough stalling. Let's go back."

"Ya think I'm _stalling_?" she asked indignantly. In response, he tapped the side of his head. She rolled her eyes. "Okay, maybe I _am _stalling."

"I won't leave you alone." He promised again. "Look, all y' got t' do is hear their piece, an' den if you never want to see 'em again, you never have t' see 'em again. Or, if you want to, we can talk with 'em some later time. But you _do_ have t' hear 'em out at some point, o' dis'll always be hanging over yo' head."

"I know you're right. I hate when you're right." She grumbled.

"Had t' happen sometime, no?"

That got a laugh. "Right. But don't let it go to your head."

"I'll try."

She took a deep breath, then blew it out. "Now, let's go and really talk with them." She started for the door.

"Wait. Where're my keys?" He asked, going through his pockets.

She raised one hand as she continued to walk away; the keys were dangling from her fingers.

"Y' _picked _my _pockets_?"

Her head turned, laughing, and she displayed his wallet in her other hand.

He stopped in mid-stride, laughing. "I _knew_ I loved you. Now, give me my wallet back."

Her mouth twitched, and she picked up her pace down the corridor. "Make me."

He bit off a curse as he began to really run.

Though she beat him to the car, she let him in.

Eventually.


	33. And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from f

Sorry about the late update, folks—life got in the way, plus this chapter was _really_ hard to write, for some reason. However, this chapter is extra-long as a result. :) Questions, comments, constructive criticism welcome, as always!

Xanadu

by Alara

Chapter 33: "And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far"

They were laughing as they reentered the Guild Seat, but at the sight of the empty corridors, quickly were reminded of the waiting X-men. Fortunately for Roisin's nerves, Jean-Luc intercepted them before they made it back to the front parlor, where the X-men were. Jean-Luc raised his palms at the expression on Roisin's face. "_Mon fille,_ I tried to explain what exactly was going on. Dey're convinced I'm lying. I didn't think they would be the suspicious types."

"They aren't," she replied, startled, and amended, "at least, they weren't when I was with them. Well, except for Logan, but that's just _him._"

Jean-Luc made no further comment on Roisin's former family, merely leaned back against his desk and said, "Report. What happened in there?"

"Well, we found our man…" They quickly described the events of the afternoon, and Jean-Luc sighed. "Well, at least dat bastard's safely locked away. And _you_ can get out of that getup," he nodded at Roisin's brief outfit—he'd hated this assignment almost as much as Remy. "Did y' happen to get his name while you were in his head?"

She shrugged. "Yes—Bill Wittin."

He frowned, and stepped behind his desk to tap at the computer. "Why does his name sound—oh."

He began to chuckle. Roisin and Remy exchanged confused looks. "Yo' world is so small, Remy," he said. "You remember de woman you bought the bike from?"

It took them both a moment to remember the motorcycle Remy had not-quite-ripped-off from the divorcee.

"Yes. De woman who hated her ex-husband so much that—" He broke off in mid-sentence as realization struck him.

Both their jaws dropped, and Roisin gasped, "_That_ was her ex? Good Lord, no _wonder_ she hated him."

"Damnit, I _should_ have taken her first offer an' screwed him over more."

Roisin rolled her eyes at that, and asked Jean-Luc, "So, what's going to happen to him?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, and I don't care. I saw some o' what he did to dose girls, and I'm just glad he didn't get the chance to do it to you." He pulled her into a brief hug.

She smiled. "Thanks, _pere._"

"Yo' welcome." He released her abruptly. "Now, go deal with those guests of yours."

A sigh trailed from the couple. "I guess we have to."

"Y' do," Jean-Luc assured her.

"Sure, give us the hard job."

"I'm not," came the surprising reply. "_I'm_ goin' t' convince Mattie dat nobody but you is saying if you're goin' anywhere. Nobody's willing to go into de kitchen—she's in a temper."

They both grimaced at the thought of an angry _Tante_. "Who said I was going anywhere?" Roisin asked, puzzled.

"Dat short guy wit' de knife hands doesn't mutter too quiet. He'd make a terrible T'ief," Jean-Luc opined. "Jus' before de video feed cut out, he was muttering t'ings about 'gettin' her away from dese people,' and de like. None of us took too kindly to those remarks." He said shortly, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Yeah? Well, neither do we," Remy assured his father, and steered his fuming wife out the door.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A few minutes later they stood hand in hand outside the parlor door. Remy had exercised his empathic abilities to their fullest, to quell the anger that had boiled up. While it might be fun to watch her rant at them, it wouldn't be particularly productive. By the time they arrived at the doors, he'd calmed her enough that nervousness at facing them again crept in, to war with the anger that wanted free rein.

The pair of Assassins lounging oh so casually outside gave them encouraging looks, and one leaned forward to whisper, "You c'n take 'em, _Rose Noire!_" It made her smile, and broke her rising temper a little, as did Remy's hand-squeeze of agreement. Bolstered by their faith in her, she pushed the door open, instigating immediate chaos as every person in the room started babbling concerned, angry, and confused questions at her.

She withstood it for a few moments, but when it didn't abate, she shouted. "Quiet!" They didn't hear her. She tried again. "If you'll please sit down, I'll explain!" Nothing. Finally, frustrated, she broadcast into their minds, _Sit down and shut up _now_ or I'm definitely _never _speaking to any of you again._ The unfamiliar voice in their heads made them all catch their breaths for a moment, Scott glancing uncertainly at the Professor, who had been the only one not shouting. The surprised expression on the Professor's face, however, informed Scott that _he_ hadn't spoken into their minds, and all the startled eyes snapped to Roisin in amazement.

"Are you going to sit?" She asked wryly, and they jerkily took their seats.

She spoke into the quiet. "Now, I've already spoken my piece. You'll get your chance in a minute. But first we have some questions for you. The first is, why didn't you believe Jean-Luc when he told you I wasn't really a whore? I'm not, you know, not in any sense."

Logan growled, glaring at Remy, "And did _he_ tell you to say that, or did his father? We _saw_ the video."

Nettled, she snapped back, "You _saw_ me posing as a whore to catch a killer. Professor X," she turned to him in annoyance, "why didn't you back P— Jean-Luc up? I'm sure you could read the truth of what I was thinking and doing in my mind. We weren't that far away."

He was silent for a brief moment, then said, "To be honest, Rog—Roisin," he stumbled over the name. "To be honest, I've been blocking you as hard as I can since I realized it was _you._"

Surprised looks turned in his direction. "But—why?" Remy asked.

"When Rogue was last with us, she had recently lost control over the psyches in her head—did she tell you that?"

Remy nodded. "We know just about everyt'in' 'bout each other."

"When I was trying to help her get control over them, she had about twenty-five or thirty psyches in her head—and they nearly overwhelmed me. They—to be honest, they frightened me. I couldn't help her get any control over them at all; I could only help her weed them out, slowly. And when we found out Rogue had had to absorb so many people in that laboratory—I was _glad_ she was dead. I was glad she didn't have to deal with the insanity in her head anymore. I took comfort in the knowledge that she was at peace at last. And now, I find out she's been _living_ with them in her head for _two years_… I'm afraid to touch your mind, Rogue. I don't know what I'll find."

"You tried to touch my mind earlier," she pointed out shortly. "I shut you out."

"Only very shallowly, enough to be sure it was _you_ sitting there. It is you, if I look closer, but you've—changed. I can sense that you've got good shields, finally, but I do not want to go any deeper than a mere brush against your mind."

Her mouth tightened in anger, or disappointment, and she deliberately flung thoughts at him. _Give me a little credit, at least, Professor,_ she said. _If I'd been out of control these past two years you'd have noticed. I _told _you, Remy helped me get control. _Look. She opened her mind to him, forcing him to see. _I have control over my powers—including getting rid of the psyches so they don't get out of control. And _look,_ please, and tell the rest of them that I really am not a whore. Logan won't believe _me.

She felt his gentle touch on her mind, and he relaxed minutely. "She really isn't a—a streetwalker," he said, relief evident in his voice. "Nor is she being forced or coerced into anything like it. And she _really_ has control over her powers." _I'm sorry for doubting you, Rogue._

"You all need to _stop_ assuming I'm the same person you left in Trask's hands; I'm not. But you couldn't have known how well it would turn out for me. _Why_—" and all the heartbreak and anger of the past two years was in her voice—"_Why_ did you _leave me there?"_

"Shit, Stripes," Logan burst out angrily, surging to his feet. "You think we _wanted_ to leave you there? We didn't." He began to pace as he spoke. "We _tried _to get you out of there. We must've hit that place a hundred times in the months you were there. They were too good. We couldn't get close. I—I just couldn't plan well enough." He shook his head in self-disgust. "Sometimes we wouldn't even make it as far as the building. The _only_ reason we knew you were alive is that the Professor kept sensing your powers being used. And then—then he said your power signature was getting fainter, that he couldn't 'see' you as well. So we made an all-or-nothing run: We didn't care who found out we were mutants, just so long as we got you out of there. They won that fight, but even when we were inside, we couldn't find you. I could catch your scent, but not enough to track you, and not even enough to be positive you were still there. And—and—" He broke off.

Professor X quietly picked up the tale when he couldn't speak. "Then word came that a prisoner's body had been found in the rubble, and they wouldn't release the names of the prisoners, and you didn't come home. Eventually we had to assume the worst. We _had _to," he spoke over her half-begun protest, "because waiting and not knowing was worse—at least if you were dead you were at peace, and the rest of us could try to put our lives back together somehow. Your loss shattered us, Rogue. The Mansion now has a full-time live-in psychologist; we're _still_ dealing with—everything."

"I blamed myself," Scott said. "I admit, it scared me when Jean was shot—she was shot in that last rescue attempt," he explained at Roisin's startled look. "It scared me, and I maybe panicked and ordered everyone back to the Mansion. Maybe if we'd stayed a little longer—" He shook his head, a frown etched into his face. He looked strangely young, visibly holding back tears. "Maybe if we'd stayed we'd have found you, and everyone would have been all right. Or maybe everyone would have been captured or killed. I don't know. I didn't know then, and I don't know now, but all I can ask is that you forgive me. If I had really _known_ you were there, I would never have left. Never. But I underestimated you. We had a little idea of what was going on, not nearly the full story, but we knew you weren't being taken care of. I thought that for sure by that time you must have died, or nearly, or you'd been moved, and that's why your mutant signature kept getting weaker and weaker. I'm so sorry. Maybe I was just telling myself what was easiest to hear, I don't know, that you weren't suffering, or that I could stop risking everybody, but…" He shrugged helplessly. Tears dripped down his cheeks from beneath his red-tinted glasses, and he abruptly turned away. A little, awkward silence fell.

"I thought at first, _no way _you were, like, dead," Kitty piped up. "You wouldn't want to give them the satisfaction. But then the Professor got sadder and sadder, and Mr. Logan got angrier and angrier, and I figured that they're so much smarter than me, they must have seen something like this before, and—I lost faith in you, Rogue. I'm sorry too."

"I have missed you and prayed for you every day," Kurt said softly.

"I've grieved for you every day," Logan said quietly.

Roisin's face tensed with emotion for a moment. Remy leaned into her slightly, and her expression cleared. "I'll be honest; I'm still hurting. I—" She shook her head. "Scott. You—you _did _make a good tactical decision. If you didn't know for sure the risk was justified, you couldn't take it. It's what we were taught. I understand where you were coming from. I don't _agree_ with it, exactly, but I do understand." A little of the tension in his shoulders left as she spoke. "Logan, as far as planning rescue attempts, you don't understand how messed up his mind was. You couldn't have predicted his moves. Plus he had a personal thing for me, so without knowing _that _any direct attack plan you came up with would probably have failed. But all the same, I wish you had come up with something _other _than direct attacks, when it was obvious they _weren't working_." She couldn't quite keep all of the bitterness out of her voice; he flinched slightly, but nodded. "Kurt—oh, Kurt—God wasn't punishing you. I guess, in a way, _I _was, by never calling, and I'm sorry. I thought—maybe I convinced myself—that you'd be glad I wasn't around anymore; I mistook your reasonable worry over what would happen if I lost control again for worry about having to be around me. I know that's not true, and I'm sorry." Kurt's gaze flicked to her face for the first time; what he saw there brought a slight lightening of his expression. Roisin moved on. "Kit, you're _still _too sweet. You didn't lose faith in me; you just had greater faith in the Prof and Logan too. They're not generally bad people to rely on—though I do wish you'd stuck by your convictions; you knew me best, I think." She turned to the last, and possibly most difficult one to deal with. She kept her expression carefully neutral. "Professor X, I can understand your fears. But I was _living _those fears, while _you_ could get outside them. You could leave them when you wished. I couldn't. I could've used a little trust and understanding, back then. As for now: I can't quite forgive you _all_, but I can understand, at least a little, why you acted like you did."

Professor X spoke up. "I don't expect your forgiveness. I'm grateful enough for your attempt at achieving an understanding of our position in this situation. I confess, though, I am curious as to why you are speaking with us now." Four other pairs of eyes trained themselves on her face, all eagerly waiting the answer.

She paused, then said, "You weren't wrong, you know. Rogue _did _die there, in Trask's lab." She sighed a little. "I sorta wish you'd let her be, instead of coming here and forcing me to dig her up after two years." The touch of anger faded from her voice, and her voice became flat as she spoke. "I had an idea this conversation would be hard. But even if it was ten times as hard to get through, I would've, because Remy really wanted me to meet with you all. That, honestly, is the _only _reason I'm talking with you. And because Jean-Luc insisted, too," she added, as an afterthought.

Despite that he was sitting right beside Roisin, they'd nearly forgotten about his presence. Those gazes moved to his face, some now more hostile. "Look, _hommes _and _femmes, _I know what it's like to be separated from yo' loved ones. And I want what's best for her. Tryin' t' leave unfinished business in the past is rarely a good idea; my _famille _only _just _ended a century-long feud with another _famille _a while ago. In thanks to Roisin in part; she's a good bridge between de _familles_. And we're not letting her go."

"I'm not going anywhere." She spoke to him, but raised her chin defiantly, bringing memories to the X-men's minds. Where before it was mostly teenage belief in invulnerability fueling her defiance, now the defiance was grounded in an unshakeable self-awareness and dignity—and, no doubt, the man at her side.

"Glad t' hear it," a smooth voice came from the corner; Belladonna unfolded herself from a shadowed corner and sauntered up to the startled group. She draped her arms lazily across Roisin and Remy's shoulders, and gave the X-men a level look. "Anyone who even _t'inks_ o' kidnappin' our Rose Noire will have t' answer t' _moi_. _After_ they've no doubt had a chat wit' Rose Noire herself, o' course." At Remy's questioning look, she explained, "De rumor mill's flying about yo' leavin' us; I decided t' come an' disprove dem fo' myself. Now," she turned her violet eyes to the surprised X-men (Wolverine was trying to figure out how she'd been hiding in the corner all this time), "_le diable, le rose, et moi_ are gon' go eat, dey're gon' get some rest, an' you can pick up this discussion tomorrow. Or de next day," she amended, seeing the mutinous expression on Roisin's face. "It's late, and you all would benefit from some quiet time t' think, yes? De guards will show you to your hotel." She swept the pair of Thieves out of the room, past the stunned X-men, as Guild guards stepped in the doorway.

Remy gave her a deeply suspicious look. "Since when have you been an advocate o' quiet time, or leaving a confrontation?"

"Since I had t' listen to _Tante _Mattie curse an' cry 'bout you leavin' us," the blonde Assassin replied. "When she started talkin' about _voudou_ an' such, I decided was time t' get you. She's scary when she's angry."

Roisin snorted. "She's scary when she's _not_ angry," she pointed out, and headed toward the kitchen. There the scents of _Tante's _frenetic cooking met them. _Tante _herself, however, was nowhere to be seen. Roisin gave Remy a questioning look. He sighed, and headed toward the walk-in pantry. Inside, sure enough, sat _Tante_, weeping and angrily reorganizing the shelves. "Tante!" Roisin exclaimed, rescuing a fragile glass of preserves from being slammed onto a shelf, "_What_ are you crying over? I'm not going anywhere!"

The older woman spun in surprise. "Roisin, child, don't sneak up on a body like dat!" Her face fell back into upset lines. "An' don' try t' bamboozle me; I _saw _you leavin', an' what I _see_, happens."

Inwardly, Roisin cursed. Mattie's 'seeings' had a near-legendary status amongst members of _both_ Guilds, for their uncanny accuracy and the inevitable dire consequences if the messages contained in them were ignored. Having grown up in the house of a future-seer, she certainly took Mattie's visions seriously, but all the same, there was a certain degree of…interpretability that came with Mattie's visions. "Mattie," she said patiently, "Did you see _where _we were going?"

"Well, no…"

"Did you see if I left with anyone other than Remy?"  
"Well… no." Mattie admitted, calming further.

"Then isn't it likely that what you _saw_ was just Remy an' me finally getting to go on our honeymoon?"

Mattie blinked at her for a moment, then launched a hug at her. "Oh, chil', I'm sorry! I had dis vision, an' then next thing I knew, we had prisoners who wanted t' take you away, an…"

"We understand," Remy said, "But could you _please_ tell everyone we're not goin' anywhere? Everyone listens to you, you know, and right now dey all t'ink dese X-men are gon' steal Roisin away from us."  
Mattie snorted. "Steal from de T'ieves' Guild? Dey got a death wish?"

"Only some of them," Roisin commented, and changed the subject. "Did you make etouffe? It smells great."

"Good Lord, de biscuits!" Mattie rushed out to the kitchen, and Roisin and Remy exchanged a sly low-five—it usually took _much_ longer to calm _Tante_ Mattie out of an upset, and now they'd get dinner, too.

All in all, not a bad end to an overfull day.

As they were eating, other members of the various Guilds dropped by. Roisin looked around the full kitchen, and said to Remy, "You know, I think I'll let the X-men stew a day or two."  
"Why? T'ought you weren't as mad at 'em anymore?"

"Yeah, I'm not, but right now…" She looked at the family members gathered around—Jean-Luc, Mattie, Mercy and Henri, young Henry, Andre, Marius and Belladonna—and said, "Right now, I've got more important things to deal with."  
At that moment, Mercy stood and said, "I've got an announcement. I'm—"

"Pregnant," everyone chorused with her, laughed at her nonplussed expression, and moved in to offer their congratulations.

Across the kitchen, Remy smiled at Roisin, kissed the hand clasped in his, and said, "I know exactly what you mean."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	34. His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Xanadu

By Alara

Chapter 34: "His flashing eyes, his floating hair!  
Weave a circle round him thrice,"

After they finished cleaning up after dinner, Remy caught up Roisin's hand and led her back to the car, ignoring the hoots and catcalls their hand-in-hand stance prompted. "Hey, careful—we only want to buy a present for one _bebe_ dis year, Remy," one of the visiting Thieves from Italy advised them, with a wink. "'Sides. Wait 'til next year—you always have available babysitters when you need them." Remy merely smiled, a little tightly, and kept moving toward the vehicle. Roisin was perplexed: his physical stance seemed amorous, but he wasn't saying anything to indicate he was feeling so, and her borrowed empathy told her he was feeling contented—but nothing more, ah, exciting than that. They sat in companionable silence during the short trip around the swamp, and once in their house, he pulled her close. "Love you, chere," he told her. She smiled, and began to reply, but stopped when he rested his hand across her lips. "I love you," he repeated, "but—an' don't laugh at me—" his shoulders sagged "'m _exhausted. _Can we go t' bed an' _just sleep?" _

She bit back a laugh with difficulty as she took his meaning. "Sure, sugar." She replied casually.

His head dropped to her shoulder. "T'ank y'," he said gratefully.

He was halfway up the stairs when she mused, "So what do I tell 'Donna, when she asks, then? That you're only up for seventeen days of nearly constant sex? She thought you were at least good for twenty this early in the marriage." He spun, indignant, and realized she was teasing.

"Well, chere," he said, leaning against the wall, "most men don't have wives driven to near-nymphomania by taking on the lust of men seeking out hookers," he pointed out. "But if someone else wants t' try de experiment, dey're welcome to try an' beat my record."

She snorted. "Oh, so it's a _record,_ now?"

"Yeah," he informed her. "It is. An' we can try t' beat it later. But right now, ma cherie," he took her hand in his again and led her up the steps. "Right now, I'd be obliged if I could spend one night sleeping with you, and _only_ you in your head, all right?"

She laughed and agreed, that sounded pretty nice, at that.

They spent the next two days mostly alone. Remy taught Roisin how to cheat at poker, Roisin taught him some lock-picking tricks she'd learned while in India. They didn't talk about his family or hers; they didn't talk about the Whores' Union or Trask. They simply spent time together, as they rarely had done since coming to New Orleans.

The third day, Sunday, they met the rest of the LeBeaus (and Kurt) at church, then returned to the Guild Seat to have brunch. When they turned the car on, the radio flared to life with a news report. "Increasing anti-mutant demonstr—" Roisin let out an irritated sound and shut the radio off. "Can't just leave us alone, can they," she said to no one in particular. Remy, who was on his cell phone, reached over and patted her thigh. The call ended, and he shut the phone with a click.

"Don't let 'em get you down, _chere_. Y' got ot'er t'ings t' worry 'bout."

Her head swiveled in his direction. "What other things?"

"Apparently _Tante_ took t'ings into her own hands, and invited de X-men t' brunch." At her look he hastily explained, "I didn't have not'ing to do with it, Mercy thought she'd warn us."

She sighed and looked out the window. "Remind me to buy her something nice as a thank-you," she commented.

"No _problemme._"

The brunch was, unsurprisingly, somewhat strained, but it was obvious that everyone was trying to get along and make the day pleasant. Hot-button topics, like Roisin leaving, were given a wide margin; instead, Tante kidnapped Kitty away to the kitchen, informing the girl that if her cooking were _that_ disgraceful, she simply hadn't had the right teacher. Henri challenged Professor X to a game of chess, and Belladonna abducted Logan to run him through the Assassins' obstacle/training course and get technical advice on its already overdue update. Etienne and Theo emerged from wherever they'd been plotting, and once she saw Kurt join them, Roisin vowed to stay far away from _any _part of the city they were in. She and Scott were playing double solitaire, tentatively feeling out the remnants of their former friendship. To her amusement, it was actually going fairly well; perhaps the fact that Remy dropped by to check on her every twenty minutes or so was reminding her to keep hold of her temper. The reminders were welcome; Scott was definitely better than he had been but every so often the old tone of I-know-better-than-you crept in, and she had to struggle to keep from smacking him across the head.

A _bang _came from the kitchen. Suddenly the living room was bristling with weapons, much to Scott's startlement as every Thief and visiting Assassin drew at least one of their guns, knives, or other injury-making device. Remy cautiously moved toward the swinging kitchen door, waving others out of the way as he approached. Before he reached the threshold, though, the door swung open to reveal a sheepish, white-faced Kitty. Actually, she was white all over; a fine coating of white powder covered her. "Um, like, did you all know that flour, like, explodes if it's heated?"

"Yes," everybody except Scott, Kurt, and Mercy said. At Kurt's look Mercy explained, "I told you the other day—I don't do the hands-on stuff."

"Um. Oh." Kitty said. "Well, Tante Mattie wants to know could someone please go to the grocery store and get more flour? I kinda… blew up…what was there. Sorta."

Roisin rose from her chair, chuckling. "Sure, I'll run down. Remy, _mon coeur,_ could you take over this game while I'm gone?"

"Sure, _belle._"

Roisin saw Scott's face light up at the chance to closely question Remy, and groaned inwardly: she might regret this. Then again, a break from Scott—and the general tension in the house—would probably be good for her.

Plus she wanted to see what Remy's reaction to Scott was.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

She got her answer as she was leaving the grocery store and was walking the ten or so blocks home. "Roisin Dubh, I hope dis Scott isn't in charge o' questioning people. He's terrible."

"Where is he?"

"Bathroom."  
"Oh. No, he generally isn't. Jean usually does the questioning—or she did," she amended, remembering the reference to the redhead's fragile emotional state.

"Why her?"  
"She's a leggy, busty, tall, bubbly redhead with telepathic powers."

"Oh. You coming home soon? 'Cos dis attempt at getting information from me has got to be hilarious. When yo' not de one bein' questioned."

"What's he trying to find out?"

"What I do fo' a living, I t'ink. O' what you do fo' a living. O' what you an' I do together—besides what's already obvious to him," he added humorously. "Jus' now he was asking do you go armed around de house normally. He noticed your gun when de flour exploded."

"What did you tell him?"

"Dat you usually do have a weapon on you, but only when you've got clothes on."

"Remy," she sighed. "Leave me _some_ sort of good name, would y—hold on a sec." She noticed a commotion up ahead; a group of people were by the open door of a SUV that was halfway up on the curb. The bystanders were clustered around something on the ground.

"What? What is it?" Remy's tone sharpened.

"I'm not sure… I'm by that bakery with the cookies 'Donna likes so much. There's a Tahoe half on the curb. I think someone's sick, or hurt, or something. Hold on." She tucked the phone between her chin and shoulder as she drew closer to the crowd, all of whom, she noticed, were dressed similarly, in shades of brown. She mentally shrugged; perhaps they all belonged to the same church, or something.

"What's going on?" She asked, craning her neck to try to see over the people.

"I don't know," one man replied, and moved aside so she could move closer, but then stepped right back where he had been. _Didn't want to lose his second-row seat to the action, _she thought sardonically. Some people were like that, though—they didn't want to get close enough to get _involved,_ oh no, but they did want to be close enough that if it turned out to be a big event, they could say, "I was _there_," like that meant anything.

"Roisin?" she heard from the phone.

"Just a minute, Rem," she said briefly and tucked the phone against her shoulder again. She broke through the circle of people. One woman, looking shocked, was pointing frantically inside the open car door. Since she was approaching from the front, Roisin couldn't see inside.

She could, however, see a limp hand dangling, visible beneath the doorframe.

"Merde," she muttered, and cursed the average Joe-on-the-street's squeamishness when encountering bodies. She swung around the edge of the door, preparing to see someone unconscious, or perhaps glazed, staring, dead eyes looking into her own. She stopped, confused; aware, live eyes were pinned to her face, a split second before she felt a shove between her shoulder blades. The owner of the eyes reached grasping hands out to her as the crowd closed in, pushing her inside. "Remy!" She screamed once, before the phone was snatched and thrown violently down.

"Get the mutie bitch!"

Hands—hands were all over her, smothering her, taking her right back to the cell in the laboratory, _those_ memories fresh and renewed because of the previous weekend's events. For a moment, she froze, consumed by panic. Then animal instinct took over, and she began fighting and clawing at the people who surrounded her. It was hopeless from the start, though; short of killing them, she couldn't really do anything to even the odds against her, which were about thirty to one. She ran an electrical charge over her skin; one man who had the misfortune to be gripping her bare neck, cursed and let go, but two took his place, trading his sticky grip for kidney punches; she doubled over in pain, the charge dissipating into nothingness. Nine of them finally ended up more-or-less lying on top of her, with no skin-to-skin contact to give her an avenue of escape. She felt a sharp sting in her leg, and twisted her head around to see a horror.

Dr. Myers—Trask's pet physician—was withdrawing a syringe from her leg. "Hello, Subject Thirteen," was all she heard, and then everything went black.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Yes. Yes I _am_ going to leave it there! …For now. Muahaha.

As always, reviews are welcomed, beckoned, demanded, begged…


	35. …beneath the thresher's flail:

Erk. Uhm…. Totally did not intend to take the better part of a year to update this, folks… now I'm done with school, hopefully updates (and writing and inspiration) won't be so far apart… Sorry! I'm pretty sure this is the second-to-last chapter, and 36 should be up very very soon. I just have to work out one or two awkward bits, and then it'll be posted. After that, on to my next adventure for our fave twosome!

35: "…beneath the thresher's flail:"

"_Roisin!_" Everyone stared in shock as Remy exploded to his feet, overturning the card table and his chair in one motion. "_Rose!_" His red eyes were wide, burning, and those nearby started to back away slowly: Remy upset was rarely a good thing.

He didn't notice; all of his attention was on the cell phone gripped in his hand. Jean-Luc and Marius stepped in to the room curiously from where they'd been discussing Guild matters in Jean-Luc's office.

Jean-Luc's face went expressionless as soon as he saw his son's face. "Remy? What's happened?"

When he didn't respond, Jean-Luc's tone sharpened. "Remy! Report!"

He reflexively answered the command in his father's voice. "She was talkin' wit' me, she saw a Tahoe up on the curb and… dey—dey took her."

"Took her? Who took her? Where, Remy?"

"Sh—she screamed m' name…" he mumbled, starting to tremble, the same fixed expression on his face. "Haven't heard her sound like dat since we escaped de lab… Can't be Trask, he's dead… must've been…"

His expression twisted violently, flashing from stunned to rage-filled in an instant. " 'm gonna kill him, 'm gonna kill him, if he's touched one inch of her skin…"

"Remy." His father dared to touch Remy's rigid arm. "Remy, _mon fils,_ y' need t' _talk_ t' us, _who has her?_ We want to help her, too."

"Myers," Remy spat. At the confused looks surrounding him, he explained, "Trask's scientist. De one who came up wit' all dose experiments he did on us. It's gotta be. He's de only one ever made her scream like _that_."

He spun, and chopped his hand through the air. "'Nough talking. I've got to go." He threw the now-silent cell phone on the table, turned on a heel, and stalked away determinedly.

He charged off down the hallways, snatching a set of keys off of a hook as he passed the front door.

"Remy, no one's sayin' don't go, but tell us where you're going, we can help you—"

Remy made an irritated sound in his throat. "Don' y' t'ink I _know _dat? 'f I knew where I was going I'd tell you. I don't know _where_, I'm just going _to her._ _I'm wasting time._" He said intently, and shoved out the door, only to be intercepted by Kitty, of all people, who'd ghosted through the intervening walls and people to beat him outside.

"I'm going with you," she informed him.

He opened his mouth to protest, shrugged—not his concern, and it would take too long to argue—and continued on his path to the cars.

Kitty turned to Mercy, and said, "Let Professor X know he can follow us by reading my mind… Mine should be familiar enough to him that he can find me even in a strange city. Will you tell him that? It might help. I don't know what you all can do here, but this is the only way I can think to help. And I'm _not_ losing my best friend when I've just found her again!"

Mercy nodded. "I'll tell him," she promised. Kitty gave her a grateful look and ran after Remy. She had to ghost through the door to make it _in_ the car before he peeled out. That maneuver got her a raised eyebrow, but no comment other than, "Put y' seatbelt on. I'm not gon' worry about traffic laws."

Kitty for once stayed wisely silent, and simply followed his order, silently grateful for the panic bar above her head.

Remy drove like a maniac as promised; fortunately either Fate or, more likely, the Guild's mysterious control over the city ensured that traffic was sparse and the lights mostly green.

He came to a screeching halt outside of a rather nondescript bakery, looked around, closed his eyes for a few tense seconds, and swore so strongly Kitty expected the car's paint to fall off.

"Uhm… what's wrong? Can I help?" She asked timidly—but not as timidly as she once would have done; losing Rogue had taught her to speak up, so now she spoke even when her instinct told her to be silent.

He rubbed his face with his hands, and turned to glare across the car at her. She flinched inwardly at the amount of pain radiating from his face, but maintained his gaze.

"Dunno," he admitted. "Got anyone who can track a car across a city? Dis is where she was taken, an' usually I could…feel… her, but dey must've knocked her out, o' something. She just… went away."

Kitty's eyes widened. "She's—she's not—"

He shook his head. "_Non_. 'f de femme were dead, Remy would be, too. One way or another, I'd know, an' I'd make sure of it."

"Yeah, and I guess it wouldn't make sense for them—whoever 'they' are—to kidnap her, only to kill her later. Wouldn't they just have, like, killed her when they found her?"

Mild surprise turned his face toward her again from where he'd been contemplating the bakery. "Y' not just a li'l cute cheerleader, are you?"

"No. Not anymore." She shook herself. "Anyway, if you want a tracker, you want Wolverine. He's the best."

He turned a skeptical eye toward her. "Dis de same 'best tracker' who couldn't find her before?"

"Mr. LeBeau, that's _not fair_!" she blurted angrily. "Trask was really devious and moved her around a lot and did things to make her scent change. But Mr. Logan has her scent _now_ and he _won't _be trying to track her a couple of weeks after she was kidnapped, or anything. And he _will not_ let her down again. Not when we know she's alive and is willing to talk to us, even a little, after what we did to her." Her face crumpled into tears, as she thrust her cell phone at him, a number already on the screen. "Here. Call him. _Now._ We _can't_ let her down again."

Remy nodded curtly, punched the send button on the phone, and impatiently waited as it began to ring.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Rose drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. She thought she heard Remy call her name, once, but since he obviously wasn't nearby, she figured it must have been one hell of a drug Myers had injected into her.

Myers. God. She'd forgotten. The surge of fear-fed adrenaline cleared the last of the cobwebs from her head and she assessed her situation rapidly.

She was lying in the cargo space of the SUV, hog-tied with what felt like packing tape—but it was that awful heavy-duty stuff with rope or fibers embedded in it, the sort of stuff you _needed _a knife to get off. _Damnit. Damn them._ Whoever 'they' were.

Well, she supposed it was time to charge things up, courtesy of Remy's power, distract them, and get the heck out of here. _Okay,_ she thought to herself. _I just have to concentrate…_

She started feeling around in her mental box of borrowed powers. Some were more difficult to control than others, particularly if she hadn't used them in a while, and since Remy was usually _with_ her on these little escapades, his were probably amongst the least-used powers. She had to be careful, though. She didn't want to tip them off and get another dose of whatever WonderDrug they'd used on her before, but she also didn't want to kill anyone.

Okay, except maybe Myers, but just him.

And maybe the guy who'd punched her in the kidneys—she still ached—but that was it. Really. She was almost positive.

She cautiously tried to open her eyes, and was grateful to find they hadn't blindfolded her. She started to reach for the power—

"Daddy! She opened her eyes. I think she's awake!" A bright and perky girl, perhaps six or seven years old, was peering at her from the second row of seats in the Tahoe.

_Goddamnit._ _Who the hell kidnaps someone and then takes his first-grader on the getaway trip?_

"Thank you for telling Daddy, sweetie. Now, just keep an eye on her, but don't touch her, okay?"

_Oh. Myers does. Of course. Should've known. Damnit!_

"Okay." There was a moment of quiet, interrupted only by the changing sounds of the tires as the SUV trundled over a bridge. "Why's her hair like that?"

"It's part of the thing that's wrong with her that Daddy's trying to fix, Katie. Now turn around and face front."

_Fix?_ Rose felt her stomach drop. _If he tries to do more experiments on me, I swear I'll tear his hands off. I don't care if I have to use my _teeth_ to do it! _

"Sweetie," a woman's voice came from the front seat. "I know your work is very important to you, but… why couldn't she be transported in Joe's car? He's right behind us, after all. We'll all get to the airport at the same time."

_Great. And his _wife_ is along for the ride too. It doesn't sound like she knows what Myers really does._

"Honey, this is the one who was almost cured before she was… lost… last year. Since that idiot Trask got himself thrown in prison, my company lost a lot of funding, especially since we couldn't prove our methods worked. But if we can finish the job with this one, it'll prove I'm _right! _We'll get all the funding we need to fix more of these—people—on a large scale. She's in this car because I don't want to risk losing her again. Actually, pull over for a second. I want to get in the back and have a chat with our guest, now that she's awake."

Roisin tensed as the SUV slowed down, frantically sorting through her options for escape. They dropped to zero, though, as the little girl, Katie, popped her head over the seat back to stare curiously at her again.

No more than three seconds after the SUV stopped, Myers was peering down at her coldly, clinically. Roisin couldn't stop the shudder that passed through her as she felt herself under that inhuman gaze again. "Katie, climb in front with your mother," he snapped, without looking at the child. He leaned closer to Roisin. "Surprised to see me again, Subject Thirteen?"

Roisin glared at him. "You despicable bastard. Don't you _know_ I could just electrocute you right now and escape?"

He smirked. "Ah, but you won't, Subject Thirteen, thanks to my… insurance plan, there in the front seat. You see, that's the problem with having _morals._ They're so inconvenient at times."

"I'm _so_ sure." After a pause, uncomfortable with his unblinking stare, she asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"We're going to a brand-new complex, built to my specifications, on a completely private island laboratory. There will be no pesky police or FBI agents to contend with there. I will finally unlock the last of your secrets, and get the secret to _destroying_ all of you freaks. I'll probably get a Nobel for my work." He added smugly. "And, of course, you'll make me both tremendously famous and rich—they're not often obtained by lowly scientists such as myself. I'd offer you a reward for your assistance, but I very much fear that you will not survive the last round of procedures I have planned."

_Great,_ Roisin thought. _Not only is he a maniac, he's an _ego_maniac, too! I've got to come up with a way to stop this car. I _can't_ end up in one of his laboratories again. I can't, I can't._ She shoved impending panic and terror away ruthlessly. Hopefully, she'd have time to freak out later.

Desperately she ran through, and discarded, most of the powers to which she had access: using them would certainly stop the car, but it would also probably kill everyone inside. The little girl in the front seat sang a happy little tune to herself, as if to punctuate Roisin's thoughts.

_Roisin…_ the thought—more of a feeling, really—brushed against her mind: Remy. He was coming for her—of course. That meant probably the Assassins' and Thieves' Guilds were, too, and the X-men to boot. But they didn't know there were innocents in this vehicle. She _had_ to stop it, soon.

The X-men…ways to stop a car…. A thought skittered across her mind, and she studiously ignored Myers while she tried to track it down. There'd been a new girl, just before she left, hadn't there? Something with earthquakes? No, that was Lance. But it was related… earthquakes… volcanoes… magma! That was it! And it just might work…

Carefully, she began to sift through psyches she'd avoided for two years, desperately hoping Myers would keep ranting long enough for her to access the almost-forgotten powers…

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The relative quiet of the warm Sunday afternoon was ripped apart by the roar of Remy's motorcycle, operated by Wolverine as he tracked Roisin's faint scent.

He was closely followed by a caravan of other vehicles: Remy's first, with Kitty in the passenger seat, followed by Jean-Luc's towncar, which held Jean-Luc, Henri, Mercy, and _Tante _Mattie, none of whom were willing to be left behind. Next was the X-van, followed by Belladonna's car, which held her, two Assassins, and one of the Italian Thieves. They kept a look out behind the group.

The going was frenetic; Wolverine would lead confidently for miles at a stretch, only to suddenly pull a U-turn, backtrack a few hundred feet, and tear off in another direction as Roisin's scent trail changed direction.

Remy was frantic, as he simultaneously followed Wolverine on the motorcycle and stretched the part of his empathic sense which was so keenly attuned to Roisin. He nearly had a heart attack when he _felt_ her. He drew his breath in sharply; Kitty immediately asked, "What is it?"

"_Her,_" he barely breathed. "She's alive. She's busy thinking, an' de femme is _angry_, too. Dose're good signs." He felt Kitty's incredulous look, and explained, "If Myers had her someplace where he could—" his throat closed at the fear that thought evoked. He coughed. "Well. If she's thinking, it means she sees a way out. And if she's angry instead of scared, it means he hasn't had a chance to do anyt'in' t' her yet. I'm getting de feeling time is running out, though. Did y' Professor man get all dat?"

"Yeah, he did," Kitty said. "Mr. LeBeau, we'll get her back. We really will. We _have_ to."

"We will," Remy replied grimly, "o' by God I'll die tryin'."

Wolverine suddenly sped up in front of them, and Kitty sat bolt upright. ", the Professor says Mr. Logan says we're _really really_ close—"

"Hang on t' somet'ing," Remy advised. "I'm not lettin' dis Wolf guy shake _me_."

Kitty held on as the car's speedometer leapt, and prayed that if they got too close to anything, she'd be able to phase them through.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sweat broke out on Roisin's face as she concentrated on the dim, vague psyche of the X-student known as Magma. _C'mon, c'mon, _work,_ please let your powers work…_ she begged the shadowy figure. Slowly at first, she felt the power respond.

_OK. I want to take out the wheels, so I have to concentrate on keeping the power low…_

The SUV suddenly swerved. Myers broke off the monologue of his future greatness to annoyedly say, "What was that for? Keep the car straight!"

"I'm _sorry,_ honey, but one of the street vents just went to a jet of steam! I couldn't see!"

"Well, keep the car straighter from here on out," Myers grumbled, then went back to talking at Roisin.

_OK, I guess that was a little _too_ low…_

Her next attempt was more successful, as she felt the car shimmy slightly, then shudder as the tires, hubcaps, wheels, and rims all suddenly heated to the point of going semi-liquid. She'd intended to only get the tires, but the SUV was coming to a halt: it would do.

She could feel Remy getting close. It gave her needed courage when Myers grabbed her and shook her, shouting, "What did you _do_, you mutie bitch?" He slapped her hard across the face, hard enough that her head bounced against the floor, and she saw stars.

Distantly, she heard the little girl scream, and the wife's shocked tones asking her husband what he was _doing_, wasn't he trying to _save_ that girl?

Myers turned to snarl at them, and his moment's inattention was enough for her to wriggle away toward the back doors of the SUV. Her arms, though taped together nearly to the elbow, had been taped in front of her. This made catching the door latch much less awkward and much faster than it could have been, and she tumbled gratefully onto the street, trying to work some slack into the tape around her legs.

She had to flatten herself to the fluid-covered pavement a second later, though, as someone in the SUV following them took a shot at her. She was almost sort of thankful when Myers glared down at her from the open back door of the vehicle: they probably wouldn't shoot when he was in the way. Not that she'd blame anyone for taking the opportunity to "accidentally" shoot him, though. _She _would.

Roisin frowned in confusion as the other SUV's windshield shivered into a spiderweb of cracks: was Myers shooting back at his own people? No, he couldn't be, he was grabbing for her again. She struggled upright again, and nearly passed out in relief as a line of cars and a motorcycle came tearing up the street: it looked like the whole damn Thieves' Guild had come after her, Remy in the lead.

With a shock she realized the X-men were a large part of the group of people who were currently taking cover behind their cars. Most of the Thieves had guns trained at various people in Trask's group, while the X-men looked ready to commit murder. Well, manslaughter at least. But definitely they looked like they were ready to commit serious manslaughter, for sure.

They all looked on edge enough that Roisin realized a huge fight was about to break out—but the X-men and Thieves didn't know there were innocents in this SUV, and Trask plainly didn't _care_ if his wife and child might be harmed by his lunacy.

Quickly, desperately, Roisin flung a mental line in Professor X's direction. She ignored his shields and 'shouted' through them.

_Rog—Roisin?_ Came his mental voice, sounding startled.

_Professor, _she thought at him, _you've _got _to let Wolverine or Kurt know—there's a little girl in the passenger seat of this SUV, and a woman driving. Neither of them know who Myers really is. They've got to be taken out of the line of fire!_

She saw Wolverine and Kurt jump as Professor X passed along the message. Wolverine gave her a measured look, then leaned over and said something to Remy, whose eyes hadn't left her since they arrived. Without moving his eyes, Remy nodded.

Wolverine counted to three, and on three, he and Kurt raced to the front of the SUV, while Remy made a beeline for Roisin. Bullets spat around them.

Wolverine clawed open the door of the SUV and Kurt clambered inside, grabbed the hands of the little girl and the woman, and vanished; Wolverine spun and raced back to where the Thieves were laying covering fire.

Remy, meanwhile, raced to Roisin, punched Myers (only to keep him out of the way, honest), and charged the tape around her feet so she could move, ducking gunfire from the other SUV the whole while. It took perhaps two seconds for the tape to fall away, half of another for him to place Roisin on her feet—but it was just long enough.

One of the flying bullets hit the ground where she'd been lying—lying in spilled gasoline and oil from the melted undercarriage of the SUV. It went up instantly, and in another half a second, the gas tank exploded, sending metal fragments everywhere.

Roisin, Remy, and Myers vanished in the bright blast.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Yes, I know, I'm terrible for leaving it _there_, of all places. 36 coming very very soon! You won't be in suspense for long. Really. No, really!


	36. and drunk the milk of Paradise

Hmm. I re-read this, and don't actually remember _writing_ most of this… Let's hear it for amnesiatic writing! Well, here's the conclusion. Let's hope my subconscious knew what it was doing when it apparently wrote this! Enjoy, and thanks for hanging in on this ride.

If anyone notices any gaping plot holes or leftover threads, let me know… I could always come up with an epilogue, if forced : )

Xanadu

by Alara

36: And drunk the milk of Paradise.

The men in the other SUV stared for a second in horror at the flaming ruin of their boss's car, then tried to make a getaway, only to find a grim telekinetic—Professor X—holding their SUV an inch off the ground. He also kept all the doors closed, ignoring the men's panicked pounding on the glass.

Jean-Luc, shocked, staggered against his car as he watched his son and daughter-in-law vanish behind a bloom of flame. Belladonna punched her car hard enough to leave a dent; Mercy and Kitty collapsed in tears. The woman they'd rescued, Mrs. Myers, cried out once and fainted dead away; little Katie began sobbing in confusion.

Only _Tante_ Mattie and Kurt stood soberly, staring intently at the gusting flames. After a second or two, some of the others did, too, wondering what they were looking at.

There was movement. Then, like a mirage, two figures staggered out of the inferno: Remy and Roisin, unscarred by the searing heat.

Jean-Luc looked like he might have a heart attack as they neared, then leapt forward to catch them as they both collapsed, coughing.

The wail of sirens drifted toward them. "Cops!" Belladonna snapped, and suddenly any superfluous Thieves and Assassins were melting away into hiding, making the crowd much less crowd-y and much more like innocent bystanders at the scene of a terrible accident.

Well, as innocent as things got when you had a supermutant holding a bullet-ridden car off the ground, filled with thugs who'd helped kidnap one of the several unconscious people on the ground, who'd somehow managed to survive the exploding SUV which the ringleader was conveniently inside when it blew.

Jean-Luc grinned. He'd take wrangling with the police and lawyers over burying his son and daughter _any_ day. Any day at all.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Several hours later, the entire mixed group staggered back in the Guild seat doors, Remy and Roisin amongst them. The hospital had let them go when all the tests showed that they were merely suffering from smoke inhalation and severe exhaustion, despite the ER doctor's insistence that they both ought to be piles of ash, by all rights. Roisin thought sardonically that he almost seemed offended to see that they weren't, because his universe simply didn't work that way. She didn't care; the doctor had let both her and Remy leave eventually. It was enough. She and Remy sat close together in Jean-Luc's towncar. The other former passengers had been deposited in other vehicles, except for Henri, who was in the front seat.

She squeezed Remy's hand. He looked over. "What is it, _chere?_"

She smiled, and kissed him briefly. "Just glad t' be alive, and here, and with you."

"I understand completely," he sighed, and draped an arm over her shoulders. "But really, Roisin," he chided, "can't y' even go get flour wit'out creatin' a huge incident out of it?"

She mock-punched him, and he caught her fist in his hand, then threaded his fingers through hers. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"_Je t'amie_," he murmured into her hair.

She smiled. "I love you too, Remy."

There was a muffled gagging sound from the front seat, where Henri was sitting. Remy made a rude gesture at him with his free hand, but maintained his grip on Roisin's.

When they arrived at the house, the tired group, who'd spent the afternoon and evening explaining things to the police, the National Guard, and some antiterrorism people, were pleasantly surprised to see a pile of sandwiches and several pitchers of iced tea and water sitting on the table.

Jean-Luc blinked. "A t'ousand dollars to whoever organized _that,_" he said gratefully, and moved toward the table, waving the X-men to join in.

"For real, _m'sieur LeBeau_?" An excited, young voice rang out. "A thousand dollars?" The owner of the voice, Henry Walker, came careening around the corner, and stopped dead when he saw Roisin and Remy, comfortably crammed into an oversized easy chair. "You're _back!"_ he crowed, and raced toward the pair. He skidded to a stop a few feet away, though, looking abashed. "Oh. Sorry. I forgot. _Tante_ Mattie says I'm s'posed to not go running at members of _de famille_."

Roisin grinned, reached out, and pulled Henry into a one-armed hug. "Don't worry about it. How did you know we'd need food?"

He rolled his eyes. "Duh. You guys are all over the news! I remember from when I was living in Ohio that if the police ever talked to anyone they always took _forever. _So I thought you might be hungry. Did that jerk guy really blow up?"

"Yep."

"Were you really in his car when it did?"

"Well, right beside it," Remy answered.

"Whoa. So, what's it like to get blown up?"

They exchanged glances. Why had they sent this kid to the Guild, again? "Um…"

"Chil', come away from dere. Y' can pester dose two after dey've had somet'in' t' eat an' a good night's sleep," _Tante_ Mattie chided Henry, rescuing Roisin and Remy.

"But…"

"Which means y' can ask dem y' questions _tomorrow,_" she said firmly, and steered Henry away.

The pair chuckled, but sobered when Jean-Luc came over to them. He offered them some sandwiches, which they accepted gratefully, then snagged a chair and sat down nearby. "Now," he said, as they ate, "I heard dat cockamamie story y' fed d' police 'bout ducking under de blast. Now tell me: what _really_ happened? How'd you escape? Not dat I'm complaining."

"Sure, _Pere,_ lull us into a sense of security with food, then question us," Roisin grumbled jokingly.

Jean-Luc only smiled. Roisin opened her mouth to answer, glanced at Jean-Luc, then closed it. "Should we take this into a conference room?" she asked dryly, eyeing the crowd of X-men, Thieves, and a couple of Assassins who'd heard Jean-Luc's question and 'just happened' to have drifted over.

Jean-Luc glanced behind him. "What? Oh. Might be a good idea. Dat way you'll only have to tell it a hundred times, not a t'ousand."

"Right."

A few minutes later, Roisin and Remy were collapsed on a couch in one of the conference rooms—the same room, Roisin was amused to notice, in which they'd told the Guild council about their year living on the lam.

Thieves, Assassins, and X-men ringed the room. They all seemed to have found whatever place gave each person the best view of the couch, without paying attention to who he or she was sitting next to. Kurt ended up sitting by Henri, who had Belladonna on his other side; on Kurt's other side sat _Tante_ Mattie, and then Wolverine, then one of the Italian Assassins, and so on.

"So," Jean-Luc drawled, from where he slumped in a chair, "tell us 'bout yo' afternoon, _Roisin Dubh._"

"Well," she began, "I was walking back from the store…" She recounted the events steadily; her voice didn't even waver when she mentioned seeing Myers leaning over her, though she did grip Remy's hand at that point.

"So, because you-all are here right now" she nodded at the X-men "I'd been thinking about the Institute, and it occurred to me that Magma's powers might be able to stop the SUV without killing everyone inside."

"But that had to be ten minutes before we caught up with you!" Wolverine broke in. "What took so long?"

Roisin closed her eyes a second, willing patience to herself. "If I haven't used a power much, or in a long time, it usually takes a while to... 'find' it in mah head. I can't even remember Magma's real name; I only met her once, an' only got a touch o' her powers, an' that was somethin' like two, two an' a half years ago!" Her voice had risen slightly, and she ended up not-quite-glaring at Wolverine. "Satisfied? Good." She didn't wait for a response, but continued on with her story for a while. "…and then I looked out an' saw all 'f you outside the car, and I thought that Myers' wife and kid might still get killed accidentally. So I…contacted… Professor X" she tapped her head and nodded in his direction, "and figured that whoever needed to know, well, he'd let 'em know."

"But ze explosion!" Kurt burst out. "How did you survive _zhat_?"

"Well, I saw you and Wolverine get the two innocents out, and half a second later Remy got to me, punched Myers—good job, by the way, _mon coeur—_and he charged up the tape around my feet so I could get up. We heard the car start to go, and all I could think of was that I didn't want Remy hurt. I guess he was thinking the same about me—"

"I was."

"—and he'd already charged the air around us, like a sort of electrical shield. I'd been thinking about Wolverine's invulnerability, and it sorta, I dunno, _mixed_ with Remy's power for just long enough that the fireball rolled past us. It was hard to keep up," she admitted, "and as soon as we were out of the actual fire, I _couldn't _keep it up. That's when we must've got the smoke inhalation. And then the cops showed up, and, well, that's it."

There was a brief silence after this matter-of-fact explanation, then the listeners exploded in a flurry of questions. Professor X wanted to know if they'd practiced sharing powers; Jean-Luc wanted to know if Remy could make his powers into a shield for anyone besides Roisin; Kitty and Kurt wanted to know if they could please hug their friend _now._

The tumult completely covered the sound of heels clicking rapidly down the hallway, so the crowd was startled when the doors were suddenly flung open by a leggy redhead, who was trailed by several woozy-looking Guild guards and two FBI agents.

Jean Grey paused in the doorway for a moment, fixated on Scott, and flung herself in his direction. "Scott! Ohmigosh, you're okay! That explosion was on the news, and you were in the background, but they didn't say if anyone was hurt or alive or what!"

The guards went to explain themselves to Jean-Luc; Remy and Roisin moved to intercept the FBI agents. It was the odd pair they'd met in the mall.

The man was eyeing Jean bemusedly, and he made some comment about redheads getting in anywhere; his shorter, redheaded companion unobtrusively elbowed him in the side as she explained their presence.

"The whole mess you were in today made the news, of course, which meant that the Witness Protection people had a new bead on your location." Roisin and Remy sighed in unison. "However," the redhead continued, and they perked up, "we managed to convince them that you died in the blast, and that the ER doctor had you two confused with someone else. After all, you'd have to be superhuman to survive that blast, right? In any case, with Myers dead now, too, there wouldn't have been a huge amount of reason to keep you in the program anymore. So we were just dropping by to let you know."

They smiled, turned, and slipped out the door, leaving Roisin and Remy to embrace gratefully: at least _one_ problem had been solved by the day's events.

Remy was just kissing Roisin when a gasped, "_Rogue?_" came from behind them. Most of the crowd sighed, and muttered, It's _Roisin._ Jean Grey walked towards her as if in a trance. Roisin braced herself for some clueless comment, but was startled to see tears in Jean's eyes as she drew closer.

"Oh, my, God, you're _alive_, and you—you look so _pretty,_ and _happy_ and…" words apparently failed her; she instead hugged the startled Roisin tightly. Several jaws dropped, including Roisin's. After a long moment, Jean sniffed and drew back, gripping Roisin's hands in hers. "I am so, so, sorry, Rogue," she said softly. "If I _ever_ made you feel—"

Roisin shook her head. "Water under the bridge," she assured Jean, "and it's Roisin, now." And surprisingly, looking at Jean, who'd obviously been under a lot of strain, the strongest emotion she _could _come up with was a mild sort of pity. There was no anger or resentment; just this mild sadness and pity. Huh. Perhaps she _had_ grown up some since she last saw the X-men.

That pity quickly turned to surprise as Jean's expression turned to a scowl, which she aimed squarely at Scott. "Oh, my God." She sounded annoyed. She stomped over to him and slugged him in the arm.

"Ow! What was th—"

"Scott Summers, _how_ long have we been dating?" Jean demanded.

Scott blinked at the non-sequitur. "Uh…"

"We have been dating for _five years,_ Scott Summers, and" she flung her hand out to encompass Roisin and Remy "here is Rogue, gone for only a little more than two years, and she's _married._ _When_ are we getting engaged, Scott?"

"Married?" erupted from four throats at once.

"Well, sure," Jean-Luc said, raising his eyebrow at them. "You didn't t'ink I was encouragin' my son an' a woman to go off home together wit'out dem bein' married, did you? Just 'cos I'm a T'ief doesn't make me immoral."

"Uh, yeah, guys, that _is_ what the double ring usually means, you know?" Roisin waved her left hand at them. She looked at Remy. "Hmm. Dey didn't notice it. Maybe my diamond isn't big eno—" She cut off in a shriek as Remy grinned, grabbed her, and fell back onto the couch, leaving Roisin to sprawl on top of him.

She moved to sit up, but he tugged her back down. "Secret's out, _chere,_ might 's well enjoy it," and he kissed her briefly. She kissed him back, and sat up anyway.

Scott, Kitty, Professor X, and Wolverine goggled, like they'd never seen someone kiss another person before.

"Hey…" Kitty poked Kurt. "How come _you_ aren't surprised they're married?"

"I saw ze rings, also."

"Why aren't you upset? I thought you would be."

"Vat else could I ask for, for her?" he shrugged. "Zey are happy, and haf a loving family here, and a house, and love." He eyed the pair wistfully. "She is alive, and she is happy. Zat is all I haf ever vanted for her."

"Kurt…" Roisin stood, and crossed to him. "I've missed you, too. I can't come back, though, you know…"

"No. You've got a family now."

"And you've got a good man there, Stripes." This came unexpectedly from Logan. At her look he shrugged. "He _literally_ ran through fire for you. There's not much else I can ask of someone. Not for you. And I've finally realized I don't _have_ the right to ask anything of anyone, when it comes to you. You're grown up."

She smiled slightly. "If I grew up well, a lot of it was due to my years with the X-men, you know. Especially you, Logan."

At this, he hugged her tightly. "Been wantin' to do that for seven years," he said gruffly. "Feels nice."

She smiled more widely.

"You know, you _can_ come to New York, Roisin," Professor X said. "As a guest? Please. Consider it?"

She stiffened, but was cut off by Kitty's excited, "Like, even if it's just for a couple of days, Roisin, please. I miss my friend. And I'd like to get to know her—her husband better, too."

Roisin glanced searchingly at Remy, and replied, "Well, maybe sometime, if work permits it…"

"How about Thanksgiving?" Kitty burst in irrepressibly. "Or the Fourth of July. Or Halloween. Or, I dunno, Arbor Day. _Something._ Please. You've got to have _some_ holidays off, right?"

Remy and Roisin, amused, looked at Jean-Luc. "What, d' I look like yo' boss o' somet'in?" and he grinned. "How 'bout you plan t' head t' New York state fo' T'anksgiving?" Kitty's squeal nearly drowned out his next words. "If it don't work out, we'll work somet'in' out in de meantime."

"That would be wonderful." Professor X agreed.

Roisin smiled and nodded; Kitty squealed excitedly again. "I—" she stopped abruptly as all of the X-men's communicators went off. She sighed. "I guess, like, duty calls. Professor X?"

The Professor had been staring off into the middle distance. He blinked, and focused on the room around him again. "Yes, I am afraid that, as Kitty says, duty calls, in Oklahoma, it seems…." He trailed off, uncharacteristically awkward.

Roisin smiled, understanding his hesitation. "Go. Save the world some more. We'll be in touch." His slightly troubled expression cleared at that, he nodded, and wheeled out of the room.

The rest of the X-men quickly collected hugs and goodbyes, and followed.

The room seemed oddly emptier with them gone, despite the Thieves and Assassins still crowding the space.

Roisin sighed a little, smiling, then jumped as Jean-Luc cleared his throat behind her. "Roisin Dubh? Telephone."

"I wonder who that could be? I didn't even hear the phone ring." She accepted the phone. "Hello?" She listened intently for a moment or two, nodded several times, said "Uh-huh" once, and hung up.

She smiled wickedly at Remy, who raised his eyebrows at her.

"Apparently the world's greatest diamonds—the Koh-i-noor, the Hope, the Blue—are going to be on display at some international gemologists' conference in Madrid next month. Are you up for a challenge?"

"I married you, didn't I?" he asked mock innocently, ducked the punch she threw, and kissed her deeply. "Y' know I love y." he said.

"I do. I love you, too."

They stood together for a moment, then Remy straightened abruptly and asked, "So. Let's go plan a heist."

"Thought you'd never ask."

~Fin~


End file.
